ALVMNW  BOOK  FVND 


YOUNG   LUCRETIA 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 
MARY  E.  WILKINS 

AUTHOR   OF    "  A   NEW   ENGLAND   NUN,  AND   OTHER   STORIES " 
"A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES  "  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW     YORK     AND    LONDON 
HARPER     &     BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 


BOOKS  BY 
MARY   E.   WILKINS    FREEMAN 

THE  COPY-CAT  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
THE  DEBTOR.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
EVELINA'S  GARDEN.     16mo. 
THE  FAIR  LAVINIA.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
GILES  CORY,  YEOMAN.     Illustrated.     32mo. 
THE  GIVERS.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE.     Post  Svo. 
JANE  FIELD.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
JEROME— A  POOR  MAN.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
THE  LOVE  OF  PARSON  LORD.     Post  Svo. 
MADELON.     Post  Svo. 
A  NEW  ENGLAND   NUN.     Post  Svo. 
PEMBROKE.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
THE  PORTION  OF  LABOR.    Illustrated.    Post  Svo. 
THE  SHOULDERS  OF  ATLAS. 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
SILENCE,  ETC.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
SIX  TREES.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
UNDERSTUDIES.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
THE  WINNING   LADY  AND  OTHERS. 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

THE  YATES  PRIDE.     Illustrated.     16mo. 
Y-QU.NG  LUCRETIA.  .Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

HARPER *&  BilOTHtRS,  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 
F-K 


LSL. 


CONTENTS 


PAOK 

YOUNG  LUCRETIA 1 

HOW  FIDELIA  WENT  TO  THE  STORE 20 

ANN  MARY ;  HER  TWO  THANKSGIVINGS 37 

ANN  LIZY'S  PATCHWORK 65 

THE  LITTLE  PERSIAN  PRINCESS 85 

WHERE  THE  CHRISTMAS-TREE  GREW 106 

WHERE  SARAH  JANE'S  DOLL  WENT 122 

SEVENTOES'  GHOST 137 

LITTLE   MIRANDY,  AND    HOW   SHE    EARNED    HER 

SHOES 152 

A  PARSNIP  STEW 175 

THE  DICKEY  BOY 193 

A  SWEET-GRASS  BASKET 216 

MEHITABLE  LAMB     ,                                                         .  237 


o  no 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"'LUCRETIA  RAYMOND,  WHAT  DO  YOU  MEAN,  PUTTING 

YOUR  DRESS  ON  THIS  WAY?'"            ....    Frontispiece 
"' WHOSE   LITTLE    GAL   AIR  YOU?'" Facing  p.  26 

MR.  LITTLE  SELECTS  THE  THANKSGIVING  TURKEY       .  43 

"SARAH  JANE  SAT  DOWN  BESIDE  THE  ROAD  AND  WEPT"  131 

THE  VISIT  TO  CAP'N  MOSEBY'S 163 

"'EAT  'EM!'  ORDERED  CAP'N  MOSEBY"  171 


THERE,    AMONG   THE    BLOSSOMING    BRANCHES,    CLUNG 


THE    DICKEY   BOY"  211 

"SHE   WAS  A   REAL  INDIAN   PRINCESS "  221 


YOUNG  LUCBETIA 


"Wno's  that  little  gal  goin'  by  ?"  said  old  Mrs. 
Emmons. 

"  That — why,  that's  young  Lucretia,  mother," 
replied  her  daughter  Ann,  peering  out  of  the 
window  over  her  mother's  shoulder.  There  was 
a  fringe  of  flowering  geraniums  in  the  window ; 
the  two  women  had  to  stretch  their  heads  over 
them. 

"  Poor  little  soul !"  old  Mrs.  Emmons  remarked 
further.  "  I  pity  that  child." 

"  I  don't  see  much  to  pity  her  for,"  Ann  re 
turned,  in  a  voice  high-pitched  and  sharply  sweet; 
she  was  the  soprano  singer  in  the  village  choir. 
"  I  don't  see  why  she  isn't  taken  care  of  as  well 
as  most  children." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  she's  took  care  of, 
but  I  guess  she  don't  get  much  coddlin'.  Lucretia 
an'  Maria  ain't  that  kind — never  was.  I  heerd 
the  other  day  they  was  goin'  to  have  a  Christmas- 


2  YOUNG   LUCRETIA 

tree  down  to  the  school-house.  Now  I'd  be  will- 
in'  to  ventur'  consider'ble  that  child  don't  have 
a  thing  on't." 

"  Well,  if  she's  kept  clean  an'  whole,  an'  made 
to  behave,  it  amounts  to  a  good  deal  more'n 
Christmas  presents,  I  suppose."  Ann  sat  down 
and  turned  a  hem  with  vigor :  she  was  a  dress 
maker. 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  it  does,  but  it  kinder  seems  as 
if  that  little  gal  ought  to  have  somethin'.  Do 
you  remember  them  little  rag  babies  I  used  to 
make  for  you,  Ann  ?  I  s'pose  she'd  be  terrible 
tickled  with  one.  Some  of  that  blue  thibet  would 
be  jest  the  thing  to  make  it  a  dress  of." 

"  Now,  mother,  you  ain't  goin'  to  fussing.  She 
won't  think  anything  of  it." 

"  Yes,  she  would,  too.  You  used  to  take  sights 
of  comfort  with  'em."  Old  Mrs.  Emmons,  tall 
and  tremulous,  rose  up  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"She's  gone  after  the  linen  pieces,"  thought 
her  daughter  Ann.  "  She  is  dreadfully  silly." 
Ann  began  smoothing  out  some  remnants  of  blue 
thibet  on  her  lap.  She  selected  one  piece  that 
she  thought  would  do  for  the  dress. 

Meanwhile  young  Lucretia  went  to  school.  It 
was  quite  a  cold  day,  but  she  was  warmly  dressed. 
She  wore  her  aunt  Lucretia' s  red  and  green  plaid 
shawl,  which  Aunt  Lucretia  had  worn  to  meeting 


YOUNG  LUCRETIA  8 

when  she  was  herself  a  little  girl,  over  her  aunt 
Maria's  black  ladies'  cloth  coat.  The  coat  was 
very  large  and  roomy — indeed,  it  had  not  been 
altered  at  all — but  the  cloth  was  thick  and  good. 
Young  Lucretia  wore  also  her  aunt  Maria's  black 
alpaca  dress,  which  had  been  somewhat  decreased 
in  size  to  fit  her,  and  her  aunt  Lucretia's  purple 
hood  with  a  nubia  tied  over  it.  She  had  mittens, 
a  black  quilted  petticoat,  and  her  aunt  Maria's 
old  drab  stockings  drawn  over  her  shoes  to  keep 
the  snow  from  her  ankles.  If  young  Lucretia 
caught  cold,  it  would  not  be  her  aunts'  fault. 
She  went  along  rather  clumsily,  but  quite  mer 
rily,  holding  her  tin  dinner-pail  very  steady.  Her 
aunts  had  charged  her  not  to  swing  it,  and  "  get 
the  dinner  in  a  mess." 

Young  Lucretia's  face,  with  very  pink  cheeks, 
and  smooth  lines  of  red  hair  over  the  temples, 
looked  gayly  and  honestly  out  of  the  hood  and 
nubia.  Here  and  there  along  the  road  were 
sprigs  of  evergreen  and  ground -pine  and  hem 
lock.  Lucretia  glanced  a  trifle  soberly  at  them. 
She  was  nearly  in  sight  of  the  school-house  when 
she  reached  Alma  Ford's  house,  and  Alma  came 
out  and  joined  her.  Alma  was  trim  and  pretty 
in  her  fur-bordered  winter  coat  and  her  scarlet 
hood. 

"  Hullo,  Lucretia !"  said  Alma. 


4  YOUNG   LUCKETIA 

"  Hullo !"  responded  Lucretia.  Then  the  two 
little  girls  trotted  on  together:  the  evergreen 
sprigs  were  growing  thicker.  "  Did  you  go  ?" 
asked  Lucretia,  looking  down  at  them. 

"  Yes ;  we  went  way  up  to  the  cross  -  roads. 
They  wouldn't  let  you  go,  would  they  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Lucretia,  smiling  broadly. 

" I  think  it  was  mean"  said  Alma. 

"  They  said  they  didn't  approve  of  it,"  said 
Lucretia,  in  a  serious  voice,  which  seemed  like  an 
echo  of  some  one  else's. 

When  they  got  to  the  school-house  it  took  her 
a  long  time  to  unroll  herself  from  her  many 
wrappings.  When  at  last  she  emerged  there  was 
not  another  child  there  who  was  dressed  quite 
after  her  fashion.  Seen  from  behind,  she  looked 
like  a  small,  tightly -built  old  lady.  Her  little 
basque,  cut  after  her  aunt's  own  pattern,  rigor 
ously  whaleboned,  with  long  straight  seams, 
opened  in  front ;  she  wore  a  dimity  ruffle,  a 
square  blue  bow  to  fasten  it,  and  a  brown  ging 
ham  apron.  Her  sandy  hair  was  parted  rigor 
ously  in  the  middle,  brought  over  her  temples  in 
two  smooth  streaky  scallops,  and  braided  behind 
in  two  tight  tails,  fastened  by  a  green  bow. 
Young  Lucretia  was  a  homely  little  girl,  al 
though  her  face  was  always  radiantly  good -mi- 
mored.  She  was  a  good  scholar,  too,  and  could 


YOUNG    LTJCKETIA  5 

spell  and  add  sums  as  fast  as  anybody  in  the 
school. 

In  the  entry,  where  she  took  off  her  things,  there 
was  a  great  litter  of  evergreen  and  hemlock ;  in 
the  farthest  corner,  lopped  pitifully  over  on  its 
side,  was  a  fine  hemlock-tree.  Lucretia  looked 
at  it,  and  her  smiling  face  grew  a  little  serious. 

"  That  the  Christmas-tree  out  there  3"  she  said 
to  the  other  girls  when  she  went  into  the  school 
room.  The  teacher  had  not  come,  and  there  was 
such  an  uproar  and  jubilation  that  she  could 
hardly  make  herself  heard.  She  had  to  poke 
one  of  the  girls  two  or  three  times  before  she 
could  get  her  question  answered. 

"  What  did  you  say,  Lucretia  Eaymond  2"  she 
asked. 

"  That  the  Christmas-tree  out  there «" 

"  Course  'tis.  Say,  Lucretia,  can't  you  come 
this  evening  and  help  trim?  the  boys  are  a-going 
to  set  up  the  tree,  and  we're  going  to  trim.  Say, 
can't  you  come  ?" 

Then  the  other  girls  joined  in:  "Can't  you 
come,  Lucretia  ? — say,  can't  you  ?" 

Lucretia  looked  at  them  all,  with  her  honest 
smile.  "  I  don't  believe  I  can,"  said  she. 

"  "Won't  they  let  you  ? — won't  your  aunts  let 
you  ?" 

"  Don't  believe  they  will." 


YOUNG    LUCRETIA 


Alma  Ford  stood  back  on  her  heels  and  threw 
back  her  chin.  "  Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  she. 
"  I  think  your  aunts  are  awfiil  mean — so  there !" 

Lucretia's  face  got  pinker,  and  the  laugh  died 
out  of  it.  She  opened  her  lips,  but  before  she 
had  a  chance  to  speak,  Lois  Green,  who  was  one 
of  the  older  girls,  and  an  authority  in  the  school, 
added  her  testimony.  "  They  are  two  mean, 
stingy  old  maids,"  she  proclaimed  ;  "that's  what 
they  are." 

<c  They're  notxneither,"  said  Lucretia,  unexpect 
edly.  "  You  sha'n't  say  such  things  about  my 
aunts,  Lois  Green." 

"  Oh,  you  can  stick  up  for  'em  if  you  want  to," 
returned  Lois,  with  cool  aggravation.  "  If  you 
want  to  be  such  a  little  gump,  you  can,  an'  no- 
body'll  pity  you.  You  know  you  won't  get  a 
single  thing  on  this  Christmas-tree." 

"  I  will,  too,"  cried  Lucretia,  who  was  fiery, 
with  all  her  sweetness. 

"  You  won't." 

"  You  see  if  I  don't,  Lois  Green." 

"  You  won't." 

All  through  the  day  it  seemed  to  her,  the  more 
she  thought  of  it,  that  she  must  go  with  the 
others  to  trim  the  school -house,  and  she  must 
have  something  on  the  Christmas-tree.  A  keen 
sense  of  shame  for  her  aunts  and  herself  was  over 


YOUNG    LUCKETIA  7 

her;  she  felt  as  if  she  must  keep  up  the  family 
credit. 

"  I  wish  I  could  go  to  trim  this  evening,"  she 
said  to  Alma,  as  they  were  going  home  after 
school. 

"  Don't  you  believe  they'll  let  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they'll  'prove  of  it,"  Lucretia 
answered,  with  dignity. 

"  Say,  Lucretia,  do  you  s'pose  it  would  make 
any  difference  if  my  mother  should  go  up  to  your 
house  an'  ask  your  aunts  ?" 

Lucretia  gave  her  a  startled  look :  a  vision  of 
her  aunt's  indignation  at  such  interference  shot 
before  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  I  don't  believe  it  would 
do  a  mite  of  good,"  said  she,  fervently.  "  But 
I  tell  you  what  'tis,  Alma,  you  might  come  home 
with  me  while  I  ask." 

"  I  will,"  said  Alma,  eagerly.  "  Just  wait  a 
minute  till  I  ask  mother  if  I  can." 

But  it  was  all  useless.  Alma's  pretty,  pleading 
little  face  as  a  supplement  to  Lucretia's,  and  her 
timorous,  "  Please  let  Lucretia  go,"  had  no  effect 
whatever. 

"  I  don't  approve  of  children  being  out  nights," 
said  Aunt  Lucretia,  and  Aunt  Maria  supported 
her.  "  There's  no  use  talking,"  said  she  ;  "you 
can't  go,  Lucretia.  Not  another  word.  Take 
your  things  off,  and  sit  down  and  sew  your  square 


8  YOUNG  LUOEETIA 

of  patchwork  before  supper.  Almy,  you'd  better 
run  right  home ;  I  guess  your  mother  '11  be  want 
ing  you  to  help  her."  And  Alma  went. 

"  What  made  you  bring  that  Ford  girl  in 
here  to  ask  me  ?"  Aunt  Lucretia,  who  had  seen 
straight  through  her  namesake's  artifice,  asked 
of  young  Lucretia. 

"  I  don't  know,"  stammered  Lucretia,  over  her 
patchwork. 

"You'll  never  go  anywhere  any  quicker  for 
taking  such  means  as  that,"  said  Aunt  Lucretia. 

"  It  would  serve  you  right  if  we  didn't  let  you 
go  to  the  Christmas-tree,"  declared  Aunt  Maria, 
severely,  and  young  Lucretia  quaked.  She  had 
had  the  promise  of  going  to  the  Christmas-tree 
for  a  long  time.  It  would  be  awful  if  she  should 
lose  that.  She  sewed  very  diligently  on  her 
patchwork.  A  square  a  day  was  her  stent,  and 
she  had  held  up  before  her  the  rapture  and  glory 
of  a  whole  quilt  made  all  by  herself  before  she 
was  ten  years  old. 

Half  an  hour  after  tea  she  had  the  square  all 
done.  "I've  got  it  done,"  said  she,  and  she 
carried  it  over  to  her  aunt  Lucretia  that  it  might 
be  inspected. 

Aunt  Lucretia  put  on  her  spectacles  and  looked 
closely  at  it.  "  You've  sewed  it  very  well,"  she 
said,  finally,  in  a  tone  of  severe  commendation. 


YOUNG    LUCRETIA  9 

"  You  can  sew  well  enough  if  you  put  your  mind 
to  it." 

"  That's  what  I've  always  told  her,"  chimed  in 
Aunt  Maria.  "  There's  no  sense  in  her  slighting 
her  work  so,  and  taking  the  kind  of  stitches  she 
does  sometimes.  Now,  Lucretia,  it's  time  for  you 
to  go  to  bed." 

Lucretia  went  lingeringly  across  the  wide  old 
sitting-room,  then  across  the  old  wide  dining- 
room,  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  quite  a  time  before 
she  got  her  candle  lighted  and  came  back,  and 
then  she  stood  about  hesitatingly. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?"  Aunt  Lucretia 
asked,  sharply.  "  Take  care ;  you're  tipping  your 
candle  over;  you'll  get  the  grease  on  the  car 
pet." 

"Why  don't  you  mind  what  you're  doing?" 
said  Aunt  Maria. 

Young  Lucretia  had  scant  encouragement  to 
open  upon  the  subject  in  her  mind,  but  she  did. 
"  They're  going  to  have  lots  of  presents  on  the 
Christmas-tree,"  she  remarked,  tipping  her  can 
dle  again. 

"Are  you  going  to  hold  that  candle  straight 
or  not?"  cried  Aunt  Lucretia.  "Who  is  going 
to  have  lots  of  presents  ?" 

"All  the  other  girls." 

When  the  aunts  got  very  much  in  earnest 


10  YOUNG   LUCRETIA 

about  anything  they  spoke  with  such  vehement 
unison  that  it  had  the  effect  of  a  duet ;  it  was 
difficult  to  tell  which  was  uppermost.  "  Well, 
the  other  girls  can  have  lots  of  presents ;  if  their 
folks  want  to  get  presents  for  'em  they  can," 
said  they.  "  There's  one  thing  about  it,  you  won't 
get  anything,  and  you  needn't  expect  anything. 
I  never  approved  of  this  giving  presents  Christ 
mas,  anyway.  It's  an  awful  tax  an'  a  foolish 
piece  of  business." 

Young  Lucretia's  lips  quivered  so  she  could 
hardly  speak.  "They'll  think  it's — so — funny 
if — I  don't  have— anything,"  she  said. 

"  Let  'em  think  it's  funny  if  they  want  to.  You 
take  your  candle  an'  go  to  bed,  an'  don't  say 
any  more  about  it.  Mind  you  hold  that  candle 
straight." 

Young  Lucre tia  tried  to  hold  the  candle  straight 
as  she  went  up-stairs,  but  it  was  hard  work,  her 
eyes  were  so  misty  with  tears.  Her  little  face 
was  all  puckered  up  with  her  silent  crying  as 
she  trudged  wearily  up  the  stairs.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  she  got  to  sleep  that  night.  She 
cried  first,  then  she  meditated.  Young  Lucretia 
was  too  small  and  innocent  to  be  artful,  but  she 
had  a  keen  imagination,  and  was  fertile  of  re 
sources  in  emergencies.  In  the  midst  of  her 
grief  and  disappointment  she  devolved  a  plan  for 


YOUNG   LUCRETIA  11 

keeping  up  the  family  honor,  hers  and  her  aunts', 
before  the  eyes  of  the  school. 

The  next  day  everything  favored  the  plan. 
School  did  not  keep ;  in  the  afternoon  both  the 
aunts  went  to  the  sewing  society.  They  had 
been  gone  about  an  hour  when  young  Lucretia 
trudged  down  the  road  with  her  arms  full  of 
parcels.  She  stole  so  quietly  and  softly  into  the 
school-house,  where  they  were  arranging  the  tree, 
that  no  one  thought  about  it.  She  laid  the  par 
cels  on  a  settee  with  some  others,  and  stole  out 
and  flew  home. 

The  festivities  at  the  school -house  began  at 
seven  o'clock.  There  were  to  be  some  exercises^ 
some  recitations  and  singing,  then  the  distribu 
tion  of  the  presents.  Directly  after  tea  young 
Lucretia  went  up  to  her  own  little  chamber  to 
get  ready.  She  came  down  in  a  surprisingly 
short  time  all  dressed. 

"  Are  you  all  ready  ?"  said  Aunt  Lucretia. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  young  Lucretia.  She 
had  her  hand  on  the  door-latch. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  half  dressed,"  said 
Aunt  Maria.  "Did  you  get  your  bow  on 
straight  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  I  think  she'd  better  take  her  things  off,  an' 
let  us  be  sure,"  said  Aunt  Lucretia.  "  I'm  not 


12  YOUNG   LUCRETIA 

goin'  to  have  her  down  there  with  her  clothes  on 
any  which  way,  an'  everybody  making  remarks. 
Take  your  sacque  off,  Lucretia." 

"Oh,  I  got  the  bow  on  straight;  it's  real 
straight,  it  is,  honest"  pleaded  young  Lucretia, 
piteously.  She  clutched  the  plaid  shawl  tightly 
together,  but  it  was  of  no  use — off  the  things  had 
to  come.  And  young  Lucretia  had  put  on  the 
prim  whaleboned  basque  of  her  best  dress  wrong 
side  before;  she  had  buttoned  it  in  the  back. 
There  she  stood,  very  much  askew  and  uncom 
fortable  about  the  shoulder  seams  and  sleeves, 
and  hung  her  head  before  her  aunts. 

"  Lucretia  Eaymond,  what  do  you  mean,  put 
ting  your  dress  on  this  way  ?" 

"All — the  other  —  girls — wear  — theirs  but 
toned  in — the  back." 

"  All  the  other  girls !  Well,  you're  not  going 
to  have  yours  buttoned  in  the  back,  and  wear 
holes  through  that  nice  ladies'  cloth  coat  every 
time  you  lean  back  against  a  chair.  I  should 
think  you  were  crazy.  I've  a  good  mind  not  to 
let  you  go  out  at  all.  Stand  round  here  !" 

Young  Lucretia's  basque  was  sharply  unbut 
toned,  she  was  jerked  out  of  it,  and  it  was  turned 
around  and  fastened  as  it  was  meant  to  be. 
"When  she  was  finally  started,  with  her  aunts' 
parting  admonition  echoing  after  her,  she  felt  sad 


YOUNG   LTJCRETIA  13 

and  doubtful,  but  soon  her  merry  disposition  as 
serted  itself. 

There  was  no  jollier  and  more  radiant  little 
soul  than  she  all  through  the  opening  exercises. 
She  listened  to  the  speaking  and  the  singing  with 
the  greatest  appreciation  and  delight.  She  sat 
up  perfectly  straight  in  her  prim  and  stiff 
basque;  she  folded  her  small  red  hands  before 
her ;  her  two  tight  braids  inclined  stiffly  towards 
her  ears,  and  her  face  was  all  aglow  with  smiles. 

When  the  distribution  of  presents  began  her 
name  was  among  the  first  called.  She  arose 
with  alacrity,  and  went  with  a  gay  little  prance 
down  the  aisle.  She  took  the  parcel  that  the 
teacher  handed  to  her ;  she  commenced  her  jour 
ney  back,  when  she  suddenly  encountered  the 
eyes  of  her  aunt  Lucretia  and  her  aunt  Maria. 
Then  her  terror  and  remorse  began.  She  had 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as  her  aunts  com 
ing — indeed,  they  had  not  themselves.  A  neigh 
bor  had  come  in  and  persuaded  them,  and  they 
had  taken  a  sudden  start  against  their  resolutions 
and  their  principles. 

Young  Lucretia' s  name  was  called  again  and 
again.  Every  time  she  slunk  more  reluctantly 
and  fearfully  down  to  the  tree ;  she  knew  that 
her  aunts'  eyes  were  surveying  her  with  more 
and  more  amazement. 


14  YOUNG   LUCRETIA 

After  the  presents  were  all  distributed  she  sat 
perfectly  still  with  hers  around  her.  They  lay 
on  her  desk,  and  the  last  one  was  in  her  lap. 
She  had  not  taken  off  a  single  wrapping.  They 
were  done  up  neatly  in  brown  paper,  and  Lucre- 
tia's  name  was  written  on  them. 

Lucretia  sat  there.  The  other  girls  were 
in  a  hubbub  of  delight  all  around  her,  com 
paring  their  presents,  but  she  sat  perfectly 
still  and  watched  her  aunts  coming.  They 
came  slowly;  they  stopped  to  speak  to  the 
teacher.  Aunt  Lucretia  reached  young  Lucretia 
first. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  she  asked.  She 
did  not  look  cross,  but  a  good  deal  surprised. 
Young  Lucretia  just  gazed  miserably  up  at  her. 
"  "Why  don't  you  undo  them  ?"  asked  Aunt  Lu 
cretia.  Young  Lucretia  shook  her  head  help 
lessly.  "  Why,  what  makes  you  act  so,  child  ?" 
cried  Aunt  Lucretia,  getting  alarmed.  Then 
Aunt  Maria  came  up,  and  there  was  quite  a  little 
group  around  young  Lucretia.  She  began  to  cry. 
"  What  on  earth  ails  the  child  ?"  said  Aunt  Lu 
cretia.  She  caught  up  one  of  the  parcels  and 
opened  it ;  it  was  a  book  bound  in  red  and  gold. 
She  held  it  close  to  her  eyes ;  she  turned  it  this 
way  and  that;  she  examined  the  fly-leaf. 
"Why,"  said  she,  "it's  the  old  gift -book  Aunt 


YOUNG   LUCRETIA  15 

Susan  gave  me  when  I  was  eighteen  years  old ! 
What  in  the  world !" 

Aunt  Maria  had  undone  another.  "This  is 
the  Floral  Album"  she  said,  tremulously; 
"  we  always  keep  it  in  the  north  parlor  on 
the  table.  Here's  my  name  in  it.  I  don't 


see—" 


Aunt  Lucretia  speechlessly  unmuffled  a  clove 
apple  and  a  nautilus  shell  that  had  graced  the 
parlor  shelf ;  then  a  little  daintily  dressed  rag 
doll  with  cheeks  stained  pink  with  cranberry  juice 
appeared.  When  young  Lucretia  spied  this  last 
she  made  a  little  grab  at  it. 

"  Oh,"  she  sobbed,  "  somebody  did  hang  this 
on  for  me  !  They  did — they  did !  It's  mine !" 

It  never  seemed  to  young  Lucretia  that  she 
walked  going  home  that  night ;  she  had  a  feel 
ing  that  only  her  tiptoes  occasionally  brushed 
the  earth ;  she  went  on  rapidly,  with  a  tall  aunt 
on  either  side.  Not  much  was  said.  Once  in  a 
lonely  place  in  the  road  there  was  a  volley  of 
severe  questions  from  her  aunts,  and  young  Lu 
cretia  burst  out  in  a  desperate  wail.  "  Oh  !"  she 
cried,  "  I  was  going  to  put  'em  right  back  again, 
I  was  !  I've  not  hurt  'em  any.  I  was  real  care 
ful.  I  didn't  s'pose  you'd  know  it.  Oh,  they 
said  you  were  cross  an'  stingy,  an'  wouldn't  hang 
me  anything  on  the  tree,  an'  I  didn't  want  'em 


16  YOUNG   LTTCRETIA 

to  think  you  were.  I  wanted  to  make  'em  think 
I  had  things,  I  did." 

"  What  made  you  think  of  such  a  thing  2" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  know.  I  never 
heard  of  such  doings  in  my  life !" 

After  they  got  home  not  much  was  said  to 
young  Lucretia ;  the  aunts  were  still  too  much  be 
wildered  for  many  words.  Lucretia  was  bidden 
to  light  her  candle  and  go  to  bed,  and  then  came 
a  new  grief,  which  was  the  last  drop  in  the 
bucket  for  her.  They  confiscated  her  rag  doll, 
and  put  it  away  in  the  parlor  with  the  clove 
apple,  the  nautilus  shell,  and  the  gift-book.  Then 
the  little  girl's  heart  failed  her,  remorse  for  she 
hardly  knew  what,  terror,  and  the  loss  of  the 
sole  comfort  that  had  come  to  her  on  this  pitiful 
Christmas  Eve  were  too  much. 

"Oh,"  she  wailed,  "my  rag  baby!  my  rag 
baby !  I — want  my — rag  baby.  Oh !  oh !  oh !  I 
want  her,  I  want  her." 

Scolding  had  no  effect.  Young  Lucretia  sobbed 
out  her  complaint  all  the  way  up-stairs,  and  her 
aunts  could  distinguish  the  pitiful  little  wail  of 
my  "  rag  baby,  I  want  my  rag  baby,"  after  she 
was  in  her  chamber. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other.  They 
had  sat  uneasily  down  by  the  sitting-room  fire. 


YOUNG   LUCRETIA  17 

"I  must  say  that  I  think  you're  rather  hard 
on  her,  Lucretia,"  said  Maria,  finally. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I've  been  any  harder  on  her 
than  you  have,"  returned  Lucretia.  "  I  shouldn't 
have  said  to  take  away  that  rag  baby  if  I'd  said 
just  what  I  thought." 

"  I  think  you'd  better  take  it  up  to  her,  then, 
and  stop  that  crying,"  said  Maria. 

Lucretia  hastened  into  the  north  parlor  with 
out  another  word.  She  carried  the  rag  baby  up 
stairs  to  young  Lucretia;  then  she  came  down 
to  the  pantry  and  got  a  seed-cake  for  her.  "  I 
thought  the  child  had  better  have  a  little  bite  of 
something ;  she  didn't  eat  scarcely  a  mite  of  sup 
per,"  she  explained  to  Maria.  She  had  given 
young  Lucretia's  head  a  hard  pat  when  she  be 
stowed  the  seed-cake,  and  bade  her  eat  it  and  go 
right  to  sleep.  The  little  girl  hugged  her  rag 
baby  and  ate  her  cooky  in  bliss. 

The  aunts  sat  a  while  longer  by  the  sitting- 
room  fire.  Just  before  they  left  it  for  the  night 
Lucretia  looked  hesitatingly  at  Maria,  and  said, 

"  I  s'pose  you  have  noticed  that  wax  doll  down 
to  White's  store,  'ain't  you?" 

"  That  big  wax  one  with  the  pink  dress  ?" 
asked  Maria,  faintly  and  consciously. 

"  Yes.  There  was  a  doll's  bedstead  there,  too. 
I  don't  know  as  you  noticed." 


18  YOUNG   LUCKETTA 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  did,  now  you  speak  of  it.  I 
noticed  it  the  day  I  went  in  for  the  calico.  There 
was  a  doll  baby's  carriage  there,  too." 

The  aunts  looked  at  each  other.,  "  I  s'pose  it 
would  be  dreadful  foolish,"  said  Lucretia. 

"  She'd  be  'most  too  tickled  to  live,"  remarked 
Maria. 

"Well,  we  can't  buy  'em  to-night  anyway," 
said  Lucretia.  "  I  must  light  the  candles  an'  lock 
up." 

The  next  day  was  Christmas.  It  was  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  old  Mrs.  Em- 
mons  went  up  the  road  to  the  Raymond  house. 
She  had  a  little  parcel.  When  she  came  into  the 
sitting-room  there  was  young  Lucretia  in  a 
corner,  so  that  the  room  should  not  get  in  a  mess, 
with  her  wealth  around  her.  She  looked  forth, 
a  radiant  little  mother  of  dolls,  from  the  midst 
of  her  pretty  miniature  house-keeping. 

"  My  sakes !"  cried  old  Mrs.  Emmons,  "  isn't 
that  complete  ?  She's  got  a  big  wax  doll,  anr  a 
bedstead,  an'  a  baby -carriage,  an'  a  table  an' 
bureau.  I  declare  1  Well,  I  don't  know  what  1 
should  have  thought  when  I  was  a  little  gal. 
An'  I've  brought  some  pieces  for  you  to  make 
some  more  dresses  for  the  rag  baby,  if  you  want 
to." 

Young  Lucretia's  eyes  snone. 


YOUNG   LUCRETIA  19 

"  You  were  real  kind  to  think  of  it,"  said  Aunt 
Lucretia;  "an5  she'll  take  real  comfort  making 
the  dresses.  I'm  real  glad  you  came  in,  Mis' 
Emmons.  I've  been  going  down  to  see  you  for 
a  long  time.  I  want  to  see  Ann,  too ;  I  thought 
I'd  see  if  she  hadn't  got  a  pattern  of  a  dress  that 
buttons  up  in  the  back  for  Lucretia." 

Young  Lucretia's  eyes  shone  more  than  ever, 
and  she  smiled  out  of  her  corner  like  a  little  star. 


HOW  FIDELIA  WENT  TO  THE 
STORE 


"  I  DON'T  know  what  we're  goin'  to  do,"  said 
Aunt  Maria  Crooker.  She  sat  in  a  large  arm 
chair,  and  held  in  her  lap  a  bowl  of  sugar  and 
butter  that  she  was  creaming.  Aunt  Maria  filled 
up  the  chair  from  arm  to  arm,  for  she  was  very 
portly ;  she  had  a  large,  rosy,  handsome  face,  and 
she  creamed  with  such  energy  that  she  panted 
for  breath. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  either,"  rejoined  her  sis 
ter,  Mrs.  Lennox.  "  I  can't  go  to  the  store  with 
my  lame  foot,  that's  certain." 

"  Well,  I  know  /can't,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  with 
additional  emphasis.  "I  haven't  walked  two 
mile  for  ten  year,  an'  I  don't  believe  I  could  get 
to  that  store  and  back  to  save  my  life." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  could,  either.  I  don't 
know  what  is  goin'  to  be  done.  We  can't  make 
the  cake  without  raisins,  anyhow.  It's  the  queer 
est  thing  how  father  happened  to  forget  them. 


HOW    FIDELIA    WENT   TO   THE    STOKE  21 

Now  here  he  is  gone  over  to  East  Dighton  after 
the  new  cow,  and  Cynthy  gone  to  Keene  to  buy 
her  bonnet,  an'  me  with  a  scalt  foot,  an'  you  not 
able  to  walk,  an'  not  one  raisin  in  the  house  to 
put  into  that  weddin'-cake." 

Mrs.  Lennox  stated  the  case  in  full,  with  a  de 
spairing  eloquence,  and  Aunt  Maria  sighed  and 
wrinkled  her  forehead. 

"  If  there  were  only  any  neighbors  you  could 
borrow  from,"  she  observed. 

"  Well,  there  ain't  any  neighbors  'twixt  here 
and  the  store  except  the  Aliens  and  the  Sim- 
monses,  and  the  Aliens  are  so  tight  they  never 
put  raisins  into  their  Thanksgivin'  pies.  Mis' 
Allen  told  me  they  didn't.  She  said  she  thought 
most  folks  made  their  pies  too  rich,  an'  her  folks 
liked  them  just  as  well  without  raisins.  An'  as 
for  the  Simmonses,  I  don't  believe  they  see  a  rai 
sin  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other.  They're 
lucky  if  they  can  get  enough  common  things  to 
eat  for  all  those  children.  I  don't  know  what's 
goin'  to  be  done.  Here's  the  dress-maker  comin' 
to-morrow,  an'  Cynthy  goin'  to  be  married  in  two 
weeks,  and  the  cake  ought  to  be  made  to-day  if 
it's  ever  goin'  to  be." 

"  Yes,  it  had,"  assented  Aunt  Maria.  "  We've 
put  it  off  full  long  enough,  anyway.  Weddin'-cake 
ain't  near  so  good  unless  it  stands  a  little  while." 


22  HOW    FIDELIA   WENT   TO   THE    STOKE 

"  I  know  it." 

Just  then  there  was  a  shrill,  prolonged  squeak. 
It  came  from  the  yard.  The  doors  and  windows 
were  open ;  it  was  a  very  warm  day. 

"  What's  that  ?"  cried  Aunt  Maria. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothin'  but  Fidelia's  little  wagon. 
She's  draggin'  it  round  the  yard." 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other ;  it  was  as 
if  a  simultaneous  idea  had  come  suddenly  to  them. 

Aunt  Maria  gave  expression  to  it  first.  "  Fide 
lia  couldn't  go,  could  she  ?" 

"  Maria  Crooker,  that  little  thing !  She  ain't 
six  years  old,  an'  she's  never  been  anywhere 
alone.  Do  you  s'pose  I'm  goin'  to  send  her  a 
mile  to  that  store  ?"  Mrs.  Lennox's  tone  was  full 
of  vehement  indignation,  but  her  eyes  still  met 
Aunt  Maria's  with  that  doubtful  and  reflective 
expression. 

"  I  don't  see  a  mite  of  harm  in  it,"  Aunt  Maria 
maintained,  sturdily.  She  set  her  bowl  of  sugar 
and  butter  on  the  table,  and  leaned  forward  with 
a  hand  on  each  aproned  knee.  "  I  know  Fidelia 
ain't  but  five  year  old,  but  she's  brighter  than 
some  children  of  seven.  It's  just  a  straight  road 
to  the  store,  an'  she  can't  get  lost,  to  save  her 
life.  And  she  knows  where  'tis.  You  took  her 
down  to  Mis'  Eose's  three  or  four  weeks  ago, 
didn't  you?" 


HOW   FIDELIA   WENT   TO   THE   STORE  23 

"  Yes ;  that  day  father  went  down  for  grain. 
I  s'pose  she  Avould  remember." 

"  Of  course  she'd  remember.  I  don't  see  one 
thing,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  to  hinder  that 
child's  goin'  down  to  the  store  an'  bringin'  home 
some  raisins.  I  used  to  go  on  errands  before  I 
was  as  old  as  she  is.  Folks  didn't  fuss  over  their 
children  so  much  in  my  day." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Lennox,  finally,  with  a  great 
sigh,  "  I  don't  know  but  I  may  as  well  send  her." 

Mrs.  Lennox  was  much  smaller  than  her  sister, 
and  she  had  a  rather  sickly  but  pleasant  face. 
She  had  to  push  a  chair  before  her  as  she  walked, 
for  she  had  scalded  her  foot  quite  badly  the  week 
before,  and  it  was  now  all  swathed  in  bandages. 
It  had  been  a  very  unfortunate  accident  in  more 
ways  than  one,  for  Cynthia,  her  elder  daughter, 
was  going  to  be  married  soon,  and  the  family 
were  busily  engaged  in  the  wedding  prepara 
tions.  It  was  very  hard  for  poor  Mrs.  Lennox  to 
have  to  limp  about  with  one  knee  in  a  chair, 
while  she  made  wedding-cake  and  arranged  for 
the  bridal  festivities,  but  she  made  the  best  of  it. 

Now  she  pushed  over  to  the  door,  and  called, 
"  Fidelia !  Fidelia !" 

Directly  the  squeak  increased  to  an  agonizing 
degree,  the  rattle  of  small  wheels  accompanied 
it,  and  Fidelia  came  trudging  around  the  corner 


34  HOW   FIDELIA   WENT   TO   THE    STOEE 

of  the  house.  She  was  a  chubby  little  girl,  and 
her  blue  tier  seemed  rather  tight  for  her.  She 
had  a  round,  rosy  face,  and  innocent  and  honest 
black  eyes.  She  wore  a  small  Shaker  bonnet  with 
a  green  cape,  and  she  stubbed  her  toes  into  the 
grass  every  step  she  took. 

"  Don't  stub  your  toes  so,"  said  her  mother,  ad- 
monishingly.  "  You'll  wear  your  shoes  all  out." 

Fidelia  immediately  advanced  with  soft  pats 
like  a  kitten.  "When  she  got  into  the  kitchen  her 
mother  took  oif  her  Shaker  bonnet  and  looked  at 
her  critically.  "  You'll  have  to  have  your  hair 
brushed,"  said  she.  "  Fidelia,  do  you  remember 
how  you  went  with  mother  down  to  Mis'  Eose's 
three  or  four  weeks  ago  ?" 

Fidelia  nodded  and  winked. 

"  There  was  a  big  pussy  cat  there,  do  you  re 
member  ?  and  Mis'  Rose  gave  you  a  cooky." 

Fidelia's  aiErmative  wink  seemed  to  give  out 
sparkles. 

"Well,  you  remember  how  we  went  to  the 
side  door  and  knocked — the  door  with  some  roses 
over  the  top  of  it — and  Mis'  Rose  came — the  side 
door?" 

Fidelia,  intensely  attentive,  standing  before  her 
mother  and  Aunt  Maria,  remembered  about  the 
side  door. 

"  Well,  you  remember  how  there  was  a  piazza 


HOW  FIDELIA   WENT  TO   THE   STORE  25 

across  the  front  of  the  house,  don't  you  ?  Father 
hitched  the  horse  to  a  post  there.  Well,  there's 
another  door  there  opening  on  the  piazza,  don't 
you  remember — a  door  with  panes  of  glass  in  it 
like  a  window  ?" 

Fidelia  remembered. 

"  Well,  now,  Fidelia,  do  you  suppose  you  can 
go  down  to  the  store  and  buy  some  raisins  for 
mother  to  put  in  sister  Cynthy's  weddin'-cake, 
aU  yourself?" 

"  An'  be  a  real  smart  little  girl,"  put  in  Aunt 
Maria. 

Fidelia  gave  one  ecstatic  roll  of  her  black  eyes 
at  them,  then  she  broke  into  a  shout, "  Lemme 
go!  lemme  go!"  She  oscillated  on  her  small 
stubbed  toes  like  a  bird  preparing  to  fly,  and  she 
tugged  energetically  at  her  mother's  apron. 

"  I'll  give  you  a  penny,  an'  you  can  buy  you  a 
nice  stick  of  red-and- white  twisted  candy,"  add 
ed  her  mother. 

Fidelia  actually  made  a  little  dash  for  the  door 
then,  but  her  mother  caught  her.  "  Stop  !"  she 
said,  in  an  admonitory  voice  which  was  quieting 
to  Fidelia,  and  made  her  realize  that  the  red-and- 
white  candy  was  still  in  the  future.  "  Now  you 
just  wait  a  minute,  an'  not  be  in  such  a  pucker. 
You  ain't  goin'  this  way,  with  your  apron  just  as 
dirty  as  poison,  and  your  hair  all  in  a  snarl. 


26  HOW   FIDELIA   WENT  TO  THE   STOKE 

You've  got  to  have  on  your  clean  apron,  and 
have  your  hair  brushed  and  your  face  washed." 

So  Fidelia  climbed  obediently  into  her  high 
chair,  and  sat  with  her  eyes  screwed  up  and  her 
fists  clinched,  while  her  mother  polished  her  face 
faithfully  with  a  wet,  soapy  end  of  a  towel,  and 
combed  the  snarls  out  of  her  hair.  "When  it  was 
all  done,  her  cheeks  being  very  red  and  shiny, 
and  her  hair  very  damp  and  smooth,  when  she 
was  arrayed  in  her  clean  starched  white  tier,  and 
had  her  Shaker  tied  on  with  an  emphatic  square 
bow,  she  stood  in  the  door  and  drank  in  the 
parting  instructions.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and 
intent,  and  her  mouth  drooped  soberly  at  the 
corners.  The  importance  of  the  occasion  had  be 
gun  to  impress  her.  She  held  a  penny  tight  in 
her  hand ;  the  raisins  were  to  be  charged,  it  not 
being  judged  advisable  to  trust  Fidelia  with  so 
much  money. 

"I  don't  believe  that  little  thing  can  carry 
three  pounds  of  raisins,"  Mrs.  Lennox  said  to 
Aunt  Maria.  She  was  becoming  more  and  more 
uneasy  about  Fidelia's  going. 

"  Let  her  take  her  little  wagon  an'  drag  'em ; 
that  '11  be  just  the  thing,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  com 
placently. 

So  Fidelia  started  down  the  road,  trundling 
behind  her  the  little  squeaking  cart.  It  was  a 


"  'WHOSE  LITTLE   GAL   AIR  YOU  ?' 


HOW   FIDELIA   WENT   TO   THE   STOKE  27 

warm  July  day,  and  it  was  very  dusty.  Directly 
Fidelia  started  she  forgot  her  mother's  injunc 
tions  about  stubbing  her  toes;  she  disappeared 
in  a  small  cloud  of  dust,  for  she  walked  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  flirted  it  up  with  great 
delight. 

In  the  course  of  the  mile  Fidelia  met  one  team. 
It  was  an  old  rocking  chaise  and  a  white  horse, 
and  an  old  farmer  was  driving.  He  drove  slower 
when  he  came  alongside  of  Fidelia.  When  he 
had  fairly  passed  her  he  stopped  entirely,  twisted 
about  in  his  seat,  and  raised  his  voice. 

"  Whose  little  gal  air  you  ?"  he  asked. 

Fidelia  was  a  little  frightened.  Instead  of 
giving  her  father's  name,  she  gave  her  own  with 
shy  precision — "  Fidelia  Ames  Lennox,"  she  said, 
retiring  into  her  Shaker  bonnet. 

"  You  ain't  runnin'  away,  be  you  ?" 

Fidelia's  pride  was  touched.  "  I'm  going  to 
the  store  for  my  mother,"  she  announced,  in  quite 
a  shrill  tone.  Then  she  took  to  her  heels,  and 
the  little  wagon  trundled  after,  with  a  wilder 
squeak  than  ever. 

Fidelia  kept  saying  over  to  herself,  "  Three 
pounds  of  your  best  raisins,  and  Mr.  Lennox  will 
come  in  and  pay  you."  Her  mother  and  Aunt 
Maria  wished  after  she  had  gone  that  they  had 
written  it  out  on  a  piece  of  paper ;  they  had  not 


28  HOW    FIDELIA   WENT    TO   THE    STORE 

thought  of  that.  But  Aunt  Maria  said  she  knew 
that  such  a  bright  child  as  Fidelia  would  remem 
ber  three  pounds  of  raisins  when  she  had  been 
told  over  and  over,  and  charged  not  to  come 
home  without  them. 

Fidelia  had  started  about  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  her  mother  and  Aunt  Maria  had 
agreed  that  they  would  not  worry  if  she  should 
not  return  until  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
That  would  allow  more  than  an  hour  for  the 
mile  walk  each  way,  and  give  plenty  of  time  for 
a  rest  between ;  for  Fidelia  had  been  instructed 
to  go  into  the  store  and  sit  down  on  a  stool  and 
rest  a  while  before  starting  upon  her  return  trip. 
"  Likely  as  not  Mis'  Eose  will  give  her  a  cooky 
or  something,"  Aunt  Maria  had  whispered  to 
Mrs.  Lennox. 

So  when  noon  came  the  two  women  pictured 
Fidelia  sitting  perched  upon  a  stool  in  the  store, 
being  fed  with  candy  and  cookies,  and  made 
much  of,  or  even  eating  dinner  with  the  Eose 
family.  "  Mis'  Eose  made  so  much  of  her  when 
you  took  her  there  before  that  I  shouldn't  won 
der  a  mite  if  she'd  kept  her  to  dinner,"  said  Aunt 
Maria.  She  promulgated  this  theory  the  more 
strenuously  when  one  o'clock  came  and  Fidelia 
had  not  appeared.  "  Of  course  that's  what  'tis," 
she  kept  repeating.  "  It  would  take  'em  a  good 


HOW   FIDELIA   WENT   TO   THE    STORE  39 

hour  to  eat  dinner.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised 
if  she  didn't  get  here  before  two  o'clock.  I  think 
you're  dreadful  silly  to  worry,  Jane." 

For  poor  Mrs.  Lennox  was  pushing  her  chair 
every  few  minutes  over  to  the  door,  where  she 
would  stand,  her  face  all  one  anxious  frown, 
straining  her  eyes  for  a  glimpse  of  the  small  fig 
ure  trudging  up  the  road.  She  had  made  the 
blueberry  dumpling  that  Fidelia  loved  for  dinner, 
and  it  was  keeping  warm  on  the  back  of  the 
stove.  Neither  she  nor  Aunt  Maria  had  eaten  a 
mouthful. 

When  two  o'clock  came  Mrs.  Lennox  broke 
down  entirely.  "  Oh  dear !"  she  wailed ;  "  oh 
dear !  I  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  let 
her  go." 

Aunt  Maria  was  now  pacing  heavily  between 
her  chair  and  the  door,  but  she  still  maintained  a 
brave  front.  "  For  goodness'  sake,  Jane,  don't 
give  up  so,"  said  she.  "I  don't  see  anything 
to  worry  about,  for  my  part;  they're  keepin' 
her." 

At  half-past  two  Mrs.  Lennox  stood  up  with  a 
determined  air.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  wait  here  an 
other  minute,"  said  she.  "  I'm  goin'  to  find  her. 
I  don't  know  but  she's  fell  into  the  brook,  or  got 
run  over."  ~h 
with  anxiety. 


80  HOW    FIDELIA   WENT   TO    THE    STORE 

"  I'd  like  to  know  how  you're  goin',"  said  Aunt 
Maria. 

"  I  guess  I  can  push  this  chair  along  the  road 
just  as  well  as  in  a  room." 

"  Pretty-lookin'  sight  you'd  be  goin'  a  mile 
with  one  knee  in  a  wooden  chair." 

"  I  guess  I  don't  care  much  how  I  look  if  I 
only  find — her."  Mrs.  Lennox's  voice  broke  into 
a  wail. 

"  You  just  sit  down  and  keep  calm,"  said  Aunt 
Maria.  "  If  anybody's  goin',  I  am." 

"  Oh,  you  can't." 

"  Yes,  I  can,  too.  I  ain't  quite  so  far  gone  that 
I  can't  walk  a  mile.  You  ain't  goin'  a  step  on 
that  scalt  foot  an'  get  laid  up,  with  that  weddin' 
comin'  off,  not  if  I  know  it.  I'm  just  goin'  to 
slip  on  my  gaiter-shoes  an'  my  sun-bonnet,  an' 
take  the  big  green  umbrella  to  keep  the  sun  off." 

When  Aunt  Maria  was  equipped  and  started, 
Mrs.  Lennox  watched  her  progress  down  the  road 
with  frantic  impatience.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  could  have  gone  faster  with  her  chair.  Truth 
was,  that  poor  Aunt  Maria,  plodding  heavily 
along  in  her  gaiter-shoes,  holding  the  green  um 
brella  over  her  naming  face,  made  but  slow  and 
painful  progress,  and  it  was  well  that  Mr.  Lennox 
and  Cynthia  Lennox  came  home  two  hours  be 
fore  they  were  expected.  It  was  three  o'clock 


HOW   FIDELIA   WENT  TO   THE   STORE  31 

when  Mr.  Lennox  came  driving  into  the  yard  in 
the  open  buggy.  Cynthia,  erect  and  blooming, 
with  her  big  bandbox  in  her  lap,  sat  beside  him, 
and  the  new  Jersey  cow,  fastened  by  a  rope  to 
the  tail  of  the  buggy,  came  on  behind  with  mel 
ancholy  moos.  Cynthia  had  bought  her  wedding- 
bonnet  sooner  than  she  had  expected,  so  she  had 
come  home  on  the  three  o'clock  train  instead  of 
the  five;  and  her  father  had  bought  the  cow 
sooner  than  he  had  expected,  and  had  come  to 
the  railroad  crossing  just  about  the  time  that 
Cynthia's  train  arrived.  So  he  had  stopped  and 
taken  in  her  and  her  bandbox,  and  they  had  all 
ridden  home  together. 

Mrs.  Lennox  stood  in  the  kitchen  door  when 
they  drove  in. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  Cynthia  cried  out,  "  I've  had 
splendid  luck !  I've  got  the  handsomest  bonnet !" 

"  I  guess  you  won't  care  much  about  bonnets," 
answered  her  mother ;  "Fidelia's  lost"  She  spoke 
quite  slowly  and  calmly,  then  she  began  to  weep 
wildly  and  lament.  It  was  quite  a  time  before 
she  could  make  the  case  plain  to  them,  and  Cyn 
thia  and  her  bandbox,  and  Mr.  Lennox  and  the 
horse  and  buggy  and  cow,  all  remained  before 
her  in  a  petrified  halt. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Lennox  fairly  understood,  he 
sprang  out  of  the  buggy,  untied  the  cow,  led  her 


32  HOW   FIDELIA   WENT  TO  THE   STORE 

into  the  barn,  turned  the  team  around,  with  a 
sharp  grate  of  the  wheels,  jumped  in  again,  and 
gathered  up  the  reins.  Cynthia,  her  rosy  cheeks 
quite  pale,  still  sat  in  her  place,  and  the  tears 
splashed  on  her  new  bandbox  cover.  Mrs.  Len 
nox  had  set  her  chair  outside  the  door,  and  fol 
lowed  it,  with  a  painful  effort.  "  Stop,  father !" 
she  cried ;  "  I'm  goin'  too !" 

"  Oh,  mother,  you  can't !"  said  Mr.  Lennox 
and  Cynthia,  together. 

"  I'm  goin'.  You  needn't  say  a  word.  Father, 
you  get  out  an'  help  me  in." 

Mr.  Lennox  got  out  and  lifted,  while  Cynthia 
pulled.  Mrs.  Lennox's  injured  foot  suffered,  but 
she  set  her  mouth  hard,  and  said  nothing.  They 
started  at  a  good  pace,  three  on  a  seat,  with  Mr. 
Lennox  in  the  middle,  driving. 

They  had  got  about  half-way  to  the  store  when 
they  overtook  Aunt  Maria.  Aunt  Maria,  with 
the  green  umbrella  overhead,  was  proceeding 
steadily,  with  a  sideways  motion  that  seemed 
more  effective  than  the  forward  one. 

"  I'll  get  out,  and  let  her  get  in,"  said  Cynthia. 

"  No,"  said  her  father ;  "  it  won't  do ;  it  'ill 
break  the  springs.  We  can't  ride  three  on  a 
seat  with  Aunt  Maria,  anyhow,  and  I've  got  to 
drive." 

So  they  passed  Aunt  Maria. 


HOW   FIDELIA   WENT   TO   THE   STORE  33 

"  Don't  go  any  farther,  Aunt  Maria,"  Cynthia 
called,  sobbingly,  back  to  her.  "  You  sit  down 
on  the  wall  and  rest." 

But  Aunt  Maria  shook  her  head,  she  could  not 
speak,  and  kept  on. 

It  was  quarter-past  three  when  they  reached 
the  Rose  house  and  the  store.  The  store  was  in 
the  front  of  the  house,  and  the  Rose  family  oc 
cupied  the  rear  portion.  The  house  stood  on  a 
street  corner,  so  a  good  deal  of  it  was  visible,  and 
the  whole  establishment  had  a  shut-up  air;  not 
a  single  farmer's  wagon  stood  before  the  store. 
However,  as  Mr.  Lennox  drove  up,  a  woman's 
head  appeared  at  a  window ;  then  a  side  door 
opened,  and  she  stood  there.  She  had  on  a  big 
apron,  and  her  face  was  flushed  as  if  she  had 
been  over  the  stove;  she  held  a  great  wooden 
spoon,  too.  She  began  talking  to  the  Lennoxes, 
but  they  paid  no  attention  to  her — their  eyes 
were  riveted  upon  the  store  door.  There  was  a 
speck  of  white  against  its  dark  front,  and  sud 
denly  it  moved.  It  was  Fidelia's  white  tier. 

"  Why,  there's  Fidelia !"  gasped  Cynthia.  She 
jumped  out,  not  waiting  for  her  father  to  turn 
the  wheel,  and  ran  to  the  store  door.  The  band 
box  rolled  out  and  the  lid  came  off,  and  there 
was  her  wedding-bonnet  in  the  dust,  but  she  did 
not  mind  that.  She  caught  Fidelia.  "  Oh,  you 


84  HOW    FIDELIA    WENT   TO   THE   STORE 

naughty  little  girl,  where  have  you  been  all  this 
time  ?"  cried  she. 

Fidelia's  eyes  took  on  a  bewildered  stare,  her 
mouth  puckered  more  and  more.  She  clung  to 
her  sister,  and  sobbed  something  that  was  quite 
inaudible.  It  was  quite  a  time  before  her  father 
and  mother  and  Cynthia  and  Mrs.  Kose,  surround 
ing  her  with  attention,  could  gather  that  the 
import  of  it  all  was  that  she  had  knocked  and 
knocked  and  nobody  had  come  to  the  door. 

"Knocked!"  gasped  Mrs.  Kose;  "why,  the 
poor  little  lamb !  Here  Mr.  Kose  and  Sam  have 
been  away  all  day,  an'  I've  been  makin'  currant- 
jell'  out  in  the  kitchen.  An'  there's  the  bell  on 
the  counter,  that  customers  always  ring  when 
there  ain't  anybody  round.  I've  been  listenin' 
for  that  all  day.  It's  been  so  hot,  an'  everybody 
hayin',  that  I  don't  suppose  a  soul  but  her  has 
been  near  the  store  since  nine  o'clock  this  morn- 
in',  and  there  she's  stood  an'  knocked.  I  never 
heard  anything  like  it  in  my  life.  See  here, 
Pussy,  haven't  you  been  asleep  ?" 

Fidelia  shook  her  head  in  a  sulky  and  down 
cast  manner,  but  there  was  a  suspiciously  flushed 
and  creasy  look  about  her,  and  they  agreed  that 
it  was  more  than  probable  that  a  nap  on  the 
store  steps  had  softened  and  shortened  her  vigil. 

Mrs.  Lennox  had  her  up  in  the  wagon  on 


HOW    FIDELIA    WENT   TO   THE    STOKE  35 

her  lap.  She  took  her  Shaker  bonnet  off,  and 
smoothed  her  hair  and  kissed  her.  "  She  thought 
she'd  got  to  knock,  I  s'pose,"  said  she.  "  I  ought 
to  have  told  her  she  didn't  have  to  when  she 
went  to  a  store.  Poor  little  soul !  mother  won't 
send  her  to  the  store  again  till  she's  bigger." 

"  I  knocked  an'  knocked,"  wailed  Fidelia,  pite- 
ously. 

She  looked  cross  and  worn  out.  Mrs.  Eose 
ran  into  the  house,  and  brought  out  a  plate  of 
cookies  and  a  mug  of  milk,  and  then  Fidelia  sat 
in  her  mother's  lap  and  ate  and  drank  and  felt 
comforted.  But  after  the  raisins  had  been  final 
ly  purchased,  Cynthia's  bonnet  picked  up  out  of 
the  dust  and  shaken,  the  little  squeaking  wagon 
stowed  under  the  seat  of  the  buggy,  and  the 
team  turned  around,  Fidelia  set  up  a  grievous 
and  injured  cry :  "  My  candy !  my  candy !  I 
'ain't — got  my  candy!"  And  she  held  up  to 
view  the  copper  cent  still  clutched  in  her  moist 
little  fist. 

"  Poor  little  lamb,  she  shall  have  her  candy !'' 
cried  Mrs.  Eose.  Fidelia  had  never  seen  such  a 
handful  of  candy  as  Mrs.  Eose  brought  out  from 
the  store.  There  was  a  twisted  red -and -white 
stick  of  peppermint,  pink  checkerberry,  clear  bar 
ley — a  stick  of  every  kind  in  the  glass  jars  in 
Mr.  Eose's  store  window.  And  Mrs.  Eose  would 


36  HOW   FIDELIA   WENT  TO   THE   STORE 

not  take  Fidelia's  one  penny  at  all ;  she  bade  her 
keep  it  until  she  came  to  the  store  again. 

Aunt  Maria  was  almost  up  to  the  store  when 
they  left  it,  and  it  was  decided  that  she  should 
remain  and  make  a  call  upon  Mrs.  Rose  while  Mr. 
Lennox  carried  the  others  home,  then  he  would 
return  for  her.  Aunt  Maria  folded  her  green 
umbrella  and  sank  down  on  the  door-step,  and 
Mrs.  Kose  brought  her  a  palm-leaf  fan  and  a 
glass  of  ginger  water.  "  I  'ain't  walked  a  mile 
before  for  ten  year,"  gasped  Aunt  Maria ;  "  but 
I'm  so  thankful  that  child's  safe  that  I  can't 
think  of  anything  else."  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes  as  she  watched  the  wagon-load  disappear 
ing  under  the  green  branches  of  the  elm-trees. 
And  Fidelia,  in  her  mother's  lap,  rode  along  and 
sucked  a  stick  of  barley  candy  in  silent  bliss. 
Griefs  in  childhood  soon  turn  to  memories; 
straightway,  as  she  sucked  her  barley  candy, 
Fidelia's  long  and  painful  vigil  at  the  store  door 
became  a  thing  of  the  past. 


ANN   MARY 

HER  TWO  THANKSGIVINGS 


"  GRANDMA." 

" What  is  it,  child?" 

"  You  goin'  to  put  that  cup-cake  into  the  pan 
to  bake  it  now,  grandma  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  guess  so.    It's  beat  'bout  enough." 

"  You  ain't  put  in  a  mite  of  nutmeg,  grand 
ma." 

The  grandmother  turned  around  to  Ann  Mary. 
"  Don't  you  be  quite  so  anxious,"  said  she,  with 
sarcastic  emphasis.  "  I  allers  put  the  nutmeg  in 
cup-cake  the  very  last  thing.  I  ruther  guess  I 
shouldn't  have  put  this  cake  into  the  oven  with 
out  nutmeg !" 

The  old  woman  beat  fiercely  on  the  cake.  She 
used  her  hand  instead  of  a  spoon,  and  she  held 
the  yellow  mixing-bowl  poised  on  her  hip  under 
her  arm.  She  was  stout  and  rosy- faced.  She 
had  crinkly  white  hair,  and  she  always  wore  a 


B8  ANN   MAKY 

string  of  gold  beads  around  her  creasy  neck.  She 
never  took  off  the  gold  beads  except  to  put  them 
under  her  pillow  at  night,  she  was  so  afraid  of 
their  being  stolen.  Old  Mrs.  Little  had  always 
been  nervous  about  thieves,  although  none  had 
ever  troubled  her. 

"  You  may  go  into  the  pantry,  an'  bring  out 
the  nutmeg  now,  Ann  Mary"  said  she  presently, 
with  dignity. 

Ann  Mary  soberly  slipped  down  from  her  chair 
and  went.  She  realized  that  she  had  made  a 
mistake.  It  was  quite  an  understood  thing  for 
Ann  Mary  to  have  an  eye  upon  her  grandmother 
while  she  was  cooking,  to  be  sure  that  she  put  in 
everything  that  she  should,  and  nothing  that  she 
should  not,  for  the  old  woman  was  absent-minded. 
But  it  had  to  be  managed  with  great  delicacy, 
and  the  corrections  had  to  be  quite  irrefutable, 
or  Ann  Mary  was  reprimanded  for  her  pains. 

When  Ann  Mary  had  deposited  the  nutmeg- 
box  and  the  grater  at  her  grandmother's  elbow, 
she  took  up  her  station  again.  She  sat  at  a  cor 
ner  of  the  table  in  one  of  the  high  kitchen-chairs. 
Her  feet  could  not  touch  the  floor,  and  they 
dangled  uneasily  in  their  stout  leather  shoes,  but 
she  never  rested  them  on  the  chair  round,  nor 
even  swung  them  by  way  of  solace.  Ann  Mary's 
grandmother  did  not  like  to  have  her  chair  rounds 


HER   TWO   THANKSGIVINGS  39 

all  marked  up  by  shoes,  and  swinging  feet  dis 
turbed  her  while  she  was  cooking.  Ann  Mary 
sat  up,  grave  and  straight.  She  was  a  delicate, 
slender  little  girl,  but  she  never  stooped.  She 
had  an  odd  resemblance  to  her  grandmother ;  a 
resemblance  more  of  manner  than  of  feature. 
She  held  back  her  narrow  shoulders  in  the  same 
determined  way  in  which  the  old  woman  held 
her  broad  ones ;  she  walked  as  she  did,  and  spoke 
as  she  did. 

Mrs.  Little  was  very  proud  of  Ann  Mary  Evans ; 
Ann  Mary  was  her  only  daughter's  child,  and 
had  lived  with  her  grandmother  ever  since  she 
was  a  baby.  The  child  could  not  remember 
either  her  father  or  mother,  she  was  so  little 
when  they  died. 

Ann  Mary  was  delicate,  so  she  did  not  go  to 
the  village  to  the  public  school.  Miss  Loretta 
Adams,  a  young  lady  who  lived  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  gave  her  lessons.  Loretta  had  graduated 
in  a  beautiful  white  muslin  dress  at  the  high- 
school  over  in  the  village,  and  Ann  Mary  had  a 
great  respect  and  admiration  for  her.  Loretta 
had  a  parlor -organ,  and  could  play  on  it,  and 
she  was  going  to  give  Ann  Mary  lessons  after 
Thanksgiving.  Just  now  there  was  a  vacation. 
Loretta  had  gone  to  Boston  to  spend  two  weeks 
with  her  cousin. 


40  ANN   MARY 

Ann  Mary  was  all  in  brown,  a  brown  calico 
dress  and  a  brown  calico,  long-sleeved  apron; 
and  her  brown  hair  was  braided  in  two  tight 
little  tails  that  were  tied  with  some  old  brown 
bonnet -strings  of  Mrs.  Little's,  and  flared  out 
stiffly  behind  the  ears.  Once,  when  Ann  Mary 
was  at  her  house,  Loretta  Adams  had  taken  it 
upon  herself  to  comb  out  the  tight  braids  and  set 
the  hair  flowing  in  a  fluffy  mass  over  the  shoul 
ders  ;  but  when  Ann  Mary  came  home  her  grand 
mother  was  properly  indignant.  She  seized  her 
and  re-braided  the  tails  with  stout  and  painful 
jerks.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  have  Loretty  Adams 
meddlin'  with  your  hair,"  said  she,  "  an'  she  can 
jest  understand  it.  If  she  wants  to  have  her  own 
hair  all  in  a  frowzle,  an'  look  like  a  wild  Injun, 
she  can  ;  you  sha'n't !" 

And  Ann  Mary,  standing  before  her  grand 
mother  with  head  meekly  bent  and  watery  eyes, 
decided  that  she  would  have  to  tell  Loretta  that 
she  mustn't  touch  the  braids,  if  she  proposed  it 
again. 

That  morning,  while  Mrs.  Little  was  making 
the  pies,  and  the  cake,  and  the  pudding,  Ann 
Mary  was  sitting  idle,  for  her  part  of  the  Thanks 
giving  cooking  was  done.  She  had  worked  so 
fast  the  day  before  and  early  that  morning  that 
she  had  the  raisins  all  picked  over  and  seeded, 


HER   TWO   THANKSGIVINGS  41 

and  the  apples  pared  and  sliced ;  and  that  was 
about  all  that  her  grandmother  thought  she  could 
do.  Ann  Mary  herself  was  of  a  different  opinion ; 
she  was  twelve  years  old,  if  she  was  small  for 
her  age,  and  she  considered  herself  quite  capable 
of  making  pies  and  cup-cake. 

However,  it  was  something  to  sit  there  at  the 
table  and  have  that  covert  sense  of  superintend 
ing  her  grandmother,  and  to  be  reasonably  sure 
that  some  of  the  food  would  have  a  strange  fla 
vor  were  it  not  for  her  vigilance. 

Mrs.  Little's  mince-pies  had  all  been  baked  the 
day  before ;  to-day,  as  she  said,  she  was  "  making 
apple  and  squash."  While  the  apple-pies  were  in 
progress,  Ann  Mary  watched  her  narrowly.  Her 
small  folded  hands  twitched  and  her  little  neck 
seemed  to  elongate  above  her  apron ;  but  she 
waited  until  her  grandmother  took  up  an  upper 
crust,  and  was  just  about  to  lay  it  over  a  pie. 
Then  she  spoke  up  suddenly.  Her  voice  had  a 
timid  yet  assertive  chirp  like  a  bird's. 

"Grandma!" 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  child  ?" 

"  You  goin'  to  put  that  crust  on  that  pie  now, 
grandma  ?" 

Mrs.  Little  stood  uneasily  reflective.  She  eyed 
the  pie  sharply.  "  Yes,  I  be.  Why  ?"  she  returned, 
in  a  doubtful  yet  defiant  manner. 


42  ANN   MARY 

"  You  haven't  put  one  bit  of  sugar  in." 

"  For  the  land  sakes  !"  Mrs.  Little  did  not 
take  correction  of  this  kind  happily,  but  when 
she  was  made  to  fairly  acknowledge  the  need  of 
it,  she  showed  no  resentment.  She  laid  the  upper 
crust  back  on  the  board  and  sweetened  the  pie. 
Ann  Mary  watched  her  gravely,  but  she  was  in 
wardly  complacent.  After  she  had  rescued  the 
pudding  from  being  baked  without  the  plums, 
and  it  was  nearly  dinner-time,  her  grandfather 
came  home.  He  had  been  over  to  the  village  to 
buy  the  Thanksgiving  turkey.  Ann  Mary  looked 
out  with  delight  when  he  drove  past  the  win 
dows  on  his  way  to  the  barn. 

"  Grandpa's  got  home,"  said  she. 

It  was  snowing  quite  hard,  and  she  saw  the  old 
man  and  the  steadily  tramping  white  horse  and 
the  tilting  wagon  through  a  thick  mist  of  falling 
snow-flakes. 

Before  Mr.  Little  came  into  the  kitchen,  his 
wife  warned  him  to  be  sure  to  wipe  all  the  snow 
from  his  feet,  and  not  to  track  in  any,  so  he 
stamped  vigorously  out  in  the  shed.  Then  he 
entered  with  an  air  of  pride.  "  There !"  said  he, 
"  what  do  ye  think  of  that  for  a  turkey  ?"  Mr. 
Little  was  generally  slow  and  gentle  in  his  ways, 
but  to-day  he  was  quite  excited  over  the  turkey. 
He  held  it  up  with  considerable  difficulty.  He 


MR.  LITTLE   SELECTS  THE   THANKSGIVING  TURKEY 


HER   TWO    THANKSGIVINGS  45 

was  a  small  old  man,  and  the  cords  on  his  lean 
hands  knotted.  "It  weighs  a  good  fifteen  pound'," 
said  he,  "  an'  there  wasn't  a  better  one  in  the 
store.  Adkins  didn't  have  a  very  big  lot  on 
hand." 

"  I  should  think  that  was  queer,  the  day  before 
Thanksgivin',"  said  Mrs.  Little.  She  was  exam 
ining  the  turkey  critically.  "  I  guess  it'll  do,"  she 
declared  finally.  That  was  her  highest  expres 
sion  of  approbation.  "Well,  I  rayther  thought 
you'd  think  so,"  rejoined  the  old  man,  beaming. 
"  I  guess  it's  about  as  good  a  one  as  can  be  got — 
they  said  'twas,  down  there.  Sam  White  he  was 
in  there,  and  he  said  'twas ;  he  said  I  was  goin' 
to  get  it  in  pretty  good  season  for  Thanksgivin', 
he  thought." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  such  very  extra  season,  the 
day  before  Thanksgivin',"  said  Mrs.  Little. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  'twas,  nuther.  I  didn't 
see  jest  what  Sam  meant  by  it." 

Ann  Mary  was  dumb  with  admiration.  When 
the  turkey  was  laid  on  the  broad  shelf  in  the 
pantry,  she  went  and  gazed  upon  it.  In  the 
afternoon  there  was  great  enjoyment  seeing  it 
stuffed  and  made  ready  for  the  oven.  Indeed, 
this  day  was  throughout  one  of  great  enjoyment, 
being  full  of  the  very  aroma  of  festivity  and  good 
cheer  and  gala  times,  and  even  sweeter  than  the 


46  ANN    MARY 

occasion  which  it  preceded.  Ann  Mary  had  only 
one  damper  all  day,  and  that  was  the  non-arrival 
of  a  letter.  Mrs.  Little  had  invited  her  son  and 
his  family  to  spend  Thanksgiving,  but  now  they 
probably  were  not  coming,  since  not  a  word  in 
reply  had  been  received.  When  Mr.  Little  said 
there  was  no  letter  in  the  post-office,  Ann  Mary's 
face  fell.  "  Oh,  dear,"  said  she,  "  don't  you  sup 
pose  Lucy  will  come,  grandma  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  her  grandmother,  "  I  don't.  Ed 
ward  never  did  such  a  thing  as  not  to  send  me 
word  when  he  was  comin',  in  his  life,  nor  Maria 
neither.  I  ain't  no  idee  they'll  come." 

"  Oh,  dear !"  said  Ann  Mary  again. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind  to 
it,"  returned  her  grandmother.  She  was  sore 
over  her  own  disappointment,  and  so  was  iras 
cible  towards  Ann  Mary's.  "  It's  no  worse  for 
you  than  for  the  rest  of  us.  I  guess  you  can 
keep  one  Thanksgivin'  without  Lucy." 

For  a  while  it  almost  seemed  to  Ann  Mary 
that  she  could  not.  Lucy  was  her  only  cousin. 
She  loved  Lucy  dearly,  and  she  was  lonesome  for 
another  little  girl ;  nobody  knew  how  she  had 
counted  upon  seeing  her  cousin.  Ann  Mary  her 
self  had  a  forlorn  hope  that  Lucy  still  might 
come,  even  if  Uncle  Edward  was  always  so  par 
ticular  about  sending  word,  and  no  word  had 


HER   TWO  THANKSGIVINGS  47 

been  received.  On  Thanksgiving  morning  she 
kept  running  to  the  window  and  looking  down 
the  road.  But  when  the  stage  from  the  village 
came,  it  passed  right  by  the  house  without  slack 
ening  its  speed. 

Then  there  was  no  hope  left  at  all. 

"You  might  jest  as  well  be  easy,"  said  her 
grandmother.  "I  guess  you  can  have  a  good 
Thanksgivin'  if  Lucy  airft  here.  This  evenin' 
you  can  ask  Loretty  to  come  over  a  little  while, 
if  you  want  to,  an'  you  can  make  some  nut- 
candy." 

"  Loretta  ain't  at  home." 

"  She'll  come  home  for  Thanksgivin',  I  guess. 
It  ain't  very  likely  she's  stayed  away  over  that. 
When  I  get  the  dinner  ready  to  take  up,  you  can 
carry  a  plateful  down  to  Sarah  Bean's,  an' 
that'll  be  somethin'  for  you  to  do,  too.  I  guess 
you  can  manage." 

Thanksgiving  Day  was  a  very  pleasant  day, 
although  there  was  considerable  snow  on  the 
ground,  for  it  had  snowed  all  the  day  before. 
Mr.  Little  and  Ann  Mary  did  not  go  to  church 
as  usual,  on  that  account. 

The  old  man  did  not  like  to  drive  to  the  vil 
lage  before  the  roads  were  beaten  out.  Mrs. 
Little  lamented  not  a  little  over  it.  It  was  the 
custom  for  her  husband  and  granddaughter  to 


48  ANN   MARY 

attend  church  Thanksgiving  morning,  while  she 
stayed  at  home  and  cooked  the  dinner.  "  It  does 
seem  dreadful  heathenish  for  nobody  to  go  to 
meetin'  Thanksgivin'  Day,"  said  she;  "an'  we 
ain't  even  heard  the  proclamation  read,  neither. 
It  rained  so  hard  last  Sabbath  that  we  couldn't 
go." 

The  season  was  unusually  wintry  and  severe, 
and  lately  the  family  had  been  prevented  from 
church -going.  It  was  two  Sundays  since  any  of 
the  family  had  gone.  The  village  was  three  miles 
away,  and  the  road  was  rough.  Mr.  Little  was 
too  old  to  drive  over  it  in  very  bad  weather. 

When  Ann  Mary  went  to  carry  the  plate  of 
Thanksgiving  dinner  to  Sarah  Bean,  she  wore  a 
pair  of  her  grandfather's  blue  woollen  socks 
drawn  over  her  shoes  to  keep  out  the  snow.  The 
snow  was  rather  deep  for  easy  walking,  but  she 
did  not  mind  that.  She  carried  the  dinner  with 
great  care;  there  was  a  large  plate  well  filled, 
and  a  tin  dish  was  turned  over  it  to  keep  it 
warm.  Sarah  Bean  was  an  old  woman  who  lived 
alone.  Her  house  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  Littles'. 

When  Ann  Mary  reached  the  house,  she  found 
the  old  woman  making  a  cup  of  tea.  There  did 
not  seem  to  be  much  of  anything  but  tea  and 
bread-and-butter  for  her  dinner.  She  was  very 


HER  TWO  THANKSGIVINGS  49 

deaf  and  infirm,  all  her  joints  shook  when  she 
tried  to  use  them,  and  her  voice  quavered  when 
she  talked.  She  took  the  plate,  and  her  hands 
trembled  so  that  the  tin  dish  played  on  the  plate 
like  a  clapper.  "  Why,"  said  she,  overjoyed, 
"  this  looks  just  like  Thanksgiving  Day,  tell  your 
grandma !" 

"  Why,  it  is  Thanksgiving  Day,"  declared  Ann 
Mary,  with  some  wonder. 

"  What?"  asked  Sarah  Bean. 

" It  is  Thanksgiving  Day,  you  know"  But  it 
was  of  no  use,  the  old  woman  could  not  hear  a 
word.  Ann  Mary's  voice  was  too  low. 

Ann  Mary  could  not  walk  very  fast  on  ac 
count  of  the  snow.  She  was  absent  some  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour ;  her  grandmother  had  told 
her  that  dinner  would  be  all  on  the  table  when 
she  returned.  She  was  enjoying  the  nice  things 
in  anticipation  all  the  way ;  when  she  came  near 
the  house,  she  could  smell  roasted  turkey,  and 
there  was  also  a  sweet  spicy  odor  in  the  air. 

She  noticed  with  surprise  that  a  sleigh  had 
been  in  the  yard.  "  I  wonder  who's  come,"  she 
said  to  herself.  She  thought  of  Lucy,  and 
whether  they  could  have  driven  over  from  the 
village.  She  ran  in.  "  Why,  who's  come  ?"  she 
cried  out. 

Her  voice  sounded  like  a  shout  in  her  own 


50  ANN   MAEY 

ears ;  it  seemed  to  awaken  echoes.  She  fairly 
startled  herself,  for  there  was  no  one  in  the 
room.  There  was  absolute  quiet  through  all  the 
house.  There  was  even  no  sizzling  from  the  ket 
tles  on  the  stove,  for  everything  had  been  dished 
up.  The  vegetables,  all  salted  and  peppered  and 
buttered,  were  on  the  table — but  the  turkey  was 
not  there.  In  the  great  vacant  place  where  the 
turkey  should  have  been  was  a  piece  of  white 
paper.  Ann  Mary  spied  it  in  a  moment.  She 
caught  it  up  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  a  note 
from  her  grandmother : 

We  have  had  word  that  Aunt  Betsey  has  had  a  bad  turn. 
Lizz  wants  us  to  come.  The  dinner  is  all  ready  for  you. 
If  we  ain't  home  to-night,  you  can  get  Loretty  to  stay  with 
you.  Be  a  good  girl.  GRANDMA. 

Ann  Mary  read  the  note  and  stood  reflecting, 
her  mouth  drooping  at  the  corners.  Aunt  Betsey 
was  Mrs.  Little's  sister;  Lizz  was  her  daughter 
who  lived  with  her  and  took  care  of  her.  They 
lived  in  Derby,  and  Derby  was  fourteen  miles 
away.  It  seemed  a  long  distance  to  Ann  Mary, 
and  she  felt  sure  that  her  grandparents  could  not 
come  home  that  night.  She  looked  around  the 
empty  room  and  sighed.  After  a  while  she  sat 
down  and  pulled  off  the  snowy  socks;  she 
thought  she  might  as  well  eat  her  dinner,  al- 


HER   TWO   THANKSGIVINGS  51 

though  she  did  not  feel  so  hungry  as  she  had  ex 
pected.  Everything  was  on  the  table  but  the 
turkey  and  plum-pudding.  Ann  Mary  supposed 
these  were  in  the  oven  keeping  warm  ;  the  door 
was  ajar.  But,  when  she  looked,  they  were  not 
there.  She  went  into  the  pantry ;  they  were  not 
there  either.  It  was  very  strange ;  there  was  the 
dripping-pan  in  which  the  turkey  had  been 
baked,  on  the  back  of  the  stove,  with  some  gravy 
in  it;  and  there  was  the  empty  pudding -dish 
on  the  hearth. 

"  What  has  grandma  done  with  the  turkey 
and  the  plum-pudding  ?"  said  Ann  Mary,  aloud. 

She  looked  again  in  the  pantry ;  then  she  went 
down  cellar — there  seemed  to  be  so  few  places  in 
the  house  in  which  it  was  reasonable  to  search 
for  a  turkey  and  a  plum-pudding ! 

Finally  she  gave  it  up,  and  sat  down  to  dinner. 
There  was  plenty  of  squash  and  potatoes  and 
turnips  and  onions  and  beets  and  cranberry- 
sauce  and  pies ;  but  it  was  no  Thanksgiving  din 
ner  without  turkey  and  plum-pudding.  It  was 
like  a  great  flourish  of  accompaniment  without 
any  song. 

Ann  Mary  did  as  well  as  she  could ;  she  put 
some  turkey-gravy  on  her  potato  and  filled  up 
her  plate  with  vegetables ;  but  she  did  not  enjoy 
the  dinner.  She  felt  more  and  more  lonely,  too. 


52  ANN   MAKY 

She  resolved  that  after  she  had  washed  up  the 
dinner  dishes  and  changed  her  dress,  she  would 
go  over  to  Loretta  Adams's.  It  was  quite  a 
piece  of  work,  washing  the  dinner  dishes,  there 
were  so  many  pans  and  kettles ;  it  was  the  mid 
dle  of  the  afternoon  when  she  finished.  Then 
Ann  Mary  put  on  her  best  plaid  dress,  and 
tied  her  best  red  ribbons  on  her  braids,  and 
it  was  four  o'clock  before  she  started  for  Lo- 
retta's. 

Loretta  lived  in  a  white  cottage  about  half  a 
mile  away  towards  the  village.  The  front  yard 
had  many  bushes  in  it,  and  the  front  path  was 
bordered  with  box ;  the  bushes  were  now  mounds 
of  snow,  and  the  box  was  indicated  by  two 
snowy  ridges. 

The  house  had  a  shut -up  look;  the  sitting- 
room  curtains  were  down.  Ann  Mary  went 
around  to  the  side  door;  but  it  was  locked. 
Then  she  went  up  the  front  walk  between  the 
snowy  ridges  of  box,  and  tried  the  front  door ; 
that  also  was  locked.  The  Adamses  had  gone 
away.  Ann  Mary  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  and  she  choked  a 
little.  She  went  back  and  forth  between  the 
two  doors,  and  shook  and  pounded ;  she  peeked 
around  the  corner  of  the  curtain  into  the  sitting- 
room.  She  could  see  Loretta's  organ,  with  the 


HER  TWO   THANKSGIVINGS  53 

music -book,  and  all  the  familiar  furniture,  but 
the  room  wore  an  utterly  deserted  air. 

Finally,  Ann  Mary  sat  down  on  the  front  door 
step,  after  she  had  brushed  off  the  snow  a  little. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  wait  a  little  while, 
and  see  if  the  folks  would  not  come  home.  She 
had  on  her  red  hood,  and  her  grandmother's  old 
plaid  shawl.  She  pulled  the  shawl  tightly  around 
her,  and  muffled  her  face  in  it ;  it  was  extremely 
cold  weather  for  sitting  on  a  door-step.  Just 
across  the  road  was  a  low  clump  of  birches; 
through  and  above  the  birches  the  sky  showed 
red  and  clear  where  the  sun  was  setting.  Every 
thing  looked  cold  and  bare  and  desolate  to  the 
little  girl  who  was  trying  to  keep  Thanksgiving. 
Suddenly  she  heard  a  little  cry,  and  Loretta's 
white  cat  came  around  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Kitty,  kitty,  kitty,"  called  Ann  Mary.  She 
was  very  fond  of  Loretta's  cat ;  she  had  none  of 
her  own. 

The  cat  came  close  and  brushed  around  Ann 
Mary  so  she  took  it  up  in  her  lap ;  and  wrapped 
the  shawl  around  it,  and  felt  a  little  comforted. 

She  sat  there  on  the  door-step  and  held  the  cat 
until  it  was  quite  dusky,  and  she  was  very  stiff 
with  the  cold.  Then  she  put  down  the  cat  and 
prepared  to  go  home.  But  she  had  not  gone  far 
along  the  road  when  she  found  out  that  the  ca£ 


54  ANN   MARY 

was  following  her.  The  little  white  creature 
floundered  through  the  snow  at  her  heels,  and 
mewed  constantly.  Sometimes  it  darted  ahead 
and  waited  until  she  came  up,  but  it  did  not 
seem  willing  to  be  carried  in  her  arms. 

When  Ann  Mary  reached  her  own  house  the 
lonesome  look  of  it  sent  a  chill  all  over  her ;  she 
was  afraid  to  go  in.  She  made  up  her  mind  to 
go  down  to  Sarah  Bean's  and  ask  whether  she 
could  not  stay  all  night  there. 

So  she  kept  on,  and  Loretta's  white  cat  still 
followed  her.  There  was  no  light  in  Sarah 
Bean's  house.  Ann  Mary  knocked  and  pounded, 
but  it  was  of  no  use ;  the  old  woman  had  gone 
to  bed,  and  she  could  not  make  her  hear. 

Ann  Mary  turned  about  and  went  home ;  the 
tears  were  running  down  her  cold  red  cheeks. 
The  cat  mewed  louder  than  ever.  When  she 
got  home  she  took  the  cat  up  and  carried  it  into 
the  house.  She  determined  to  keep  it  for  com 
pany,  anyway.  She  was  sure,  now,  that  she 
would  have  to  stay  alone  all  night ;  the  Adamses 
and  Sarah  Bean  were  the  only  neighbors,  and  it 
was  so  late  now  that  she  had  no  hope  of  her 
grandparents'  return.  Ann  Mary  was  timid  and 
nervous,  but  she  had  a  vein  of  philosophy,  and 
she  generally  grasped  the  situation  with  all  the 
strength  she  had,  when  she  became  convinced 


HER  TWO  THANKSGIVINGS  55 

that  she  must.  She  had  laid  her  plans  while 
walking  home  through  the  keen  winter  air,  even 
as  the  tears  were  streaming  over  her  cheeks,  and 
she  proceeded  to  carry  them  into  execution.  She 
gave  Loretta's  cat  its  supper,  and  she  ate  a  piece 
of  mince-pie  herself ;  then  she  fixed  the  kitchen 
and  the  sitting-room  fires,  and  locked  up  the 
house  very  thoroughly.  Next,  she  took  the  cat 
and  the  lamp  and  went  into  the  dark  bedroom 
and  locked  the  door ;  then  she  and  the  cat  were 
as  safe  as  she  knew  how  to  make  them.  The 
dark  bedroom  was  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
house,  the  centre  of  a  nest  of  rooms.  It  was 
small  and  square,  had  no  windows,  and  only  one 
door.  It  was  a  sort  of  fastness.  Ann  Mary  made 
up  her  mind  that  she  would  not  undress  herself, 
and  that  she  would  keep  the  lamp  burning  all 
night.  She  climbed  into  the  big  yellow-posted 
bedstead,  and  the  cat  cuddled  up  to  her  and 
purred. 

Ann  Mary  lay  in  bed  and  stared  at  the  white 
satin  scrolls  on  the  wall-paper,  and  listened  for 
noises.  She  heard  a  great  many,  but  they  were 
all  mysterious  and  indefinable,  till  about  ten 
o'clock.  Then  she  sat  straight  up  in  bed  and  her 
heart  beat  fast.  She  certainly  heard  sleigh-bells ; 
the  sound  penetrated  even  to  the  dark  bedroom. 
Then  came  a  jarring  pounding  on  the  side  door. 


56  ANN   MART 

Ann  Mary  got  up,  unfastened  the  bedroom  door, 
took  the  lamp,  and  stepped  out  into  the  sitting- 
room.  The  pounding  came  again.  "  Ann  Mary, 
Ann  Mary !"  cried  a  voice.  It  was  her  grand 
mother's. 

"I'm  comin',  I'm  comin',  grandma!"  shouted 
Ann  Mary.  She  had  never  felt  so  happy  in  her 
life.  She  pushed  back  the  bolt  of  the  side 
door  with  trembling  haste.  There  stood  her 
grandmother  all  muffled  up,  with  a  shawl  over 
her  head ;  and  out  in  the  yard  were  her 
grandfather  and  another  man,  with  a  horse 
and  sleigh.  The  men  were  turning  the  sleigh 
around. 

"  Put  the  lamp  in  the  window,  Ann  Mary," 
called  Mr.  Little,  and  Ann  Mary  obeyed.  Her 
grandmother  sank  into  a  chair.  "  I'm  jest  about 
tuckered  out,"  she  groaned.  "  If  I  don't  ketch 
my  death  with  this  day's  work,  I'm  lucky.  There 
ain't  any  more  feelin'  in  my  feet  than  as  if  they 
was  lumps  of  stone." 

Ann  Mary  stood  at  her  grandmother's  elbow, 
and  her  face  was  all  beaming.  "  I  thought  you 
weren't  coming,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  have  come  a  step  to-night, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you — and  the  cow,"  said  her 
grandmother,  in  an  indignant  voice.  "  I  was 
kind  of  uneasy  about  you,  an'  we  knew  the  cow 


HER   TWO    THANKSGIVINGS  57 

wouldn't  be  milked  unless  you  got  Mr.  Adams  to 
come  over." 

"Was  Aunt  Betsey  very  sick?"  inquired  Ann 
Mary. 

Her  grandmother  gave  her  head  a  toss.  "  Sick ! 
No,  there  wa'n't  a  thing  the  matter  with  her,  ex 
cept  she  ate  some  sassage-meat,  an'  had  a  little 
faint  turn.  Lizz  was  scart  to  death,  the  way  she 
always  is.  She  didn't  act  as  if  she  knew  whether 
her  head  was  on,  all  the  time  we  were  there. 
She  didn't  act  as  if  she  knew  'twas  Thanksgivin' 
Day ;  an'  she  didn't  have  no  turkey  that  I  could 
see.  Aunt  Betsey  bein'  took  sick  seemed  to  put 
everythin'  out  of  her  head.  I  never  saw  such  a 
nervous  thing  as  she  is.  I  was  all  out  of  patience 
when  I  got  there.  Betsey  didn't  seem  to  be 
very  bad  off,  an'  there  we'd  hurried  enough  to 
break  our  necks.  We  didn't  dare  to  drive  around 
to  Sarah  Bean's  to  let  you  know  about  it,  for  we 
was  afraid  we'd  miss  the  train.  We  jest  got  in 
with  the  man  that  brought  the  word,  an'  he 
driv  as  fast  as  he  could  over  to  the  village,  an' 
then  we  lost  the  train,  an'  had  to  sit  there  in  the 
depot  two  mortal  hours.  An'  now  we've  come 
fourteen  mile'  in  an  open  sleigh.  The  man  that 
lives  next  door  to  Betsey  said  he'd  bring  us 
home,  an'  I  thought  we'd  better  come.  He's 
goin'  over  to  the  village  to-night ;  he's  got  folks 


58  ANN   MABY 

there.  I  told  him  he'd  a  good  deal  better  stay 
here,  but  he  won't.  He's  as  deaf  as  an  adder, 
an'  you  can't  make  him  hear  anythin',  anyway. 
We  ain't  spoke  a  word  all  the  way  home. 
Where's  Loretty  ?  She  came  over  to  stay  with 
you,  didn't  she  ?" 

Ann  Mary  explained  that  Loretta  was  not  at 
home. 

"  That's  queer,  seems  to  me,  Thanksgivin' 
Day,"  said  her  grandmother.  "Massy  sakes, 
what  cat's  that?  She  came  out  of  the  settin'- 
room !" 

Ann  Mary  explained  about  Loretta's  cat.  Then 
she  burst  forth  with  the  question  that  had  been 
uppermost  in  her  mind  ever  since  her  grand 
mother  came  in.  "  Grandma,"  said  she,  "  what 
did  you  do  with  the  turkey  and  the  plum-pud 
ding?" 

"What?" 

"  What  did  you  do  with  the  turkey  and  the 
plum-pudding?" 

"  The  turkey  an'  the  plum-puddin'  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  couldn't  find  'em  anywhere." 

Mrs.  Little,  who  had  removed  her  wraps,  and 
was  crouching  over  the  kitchen  stove  with  her 
feet  in  the  oven,  looked  at  Ann  Mary  with  a 
dazed  expression. 

"  I  dunno  what  you  mean,  child,"  said  she. 


HER   TWO   THANKSGIVINGS  59 

Mr.  Little  had  helped  the  man  with  the  sleigh 
to  start,  and  had  now  come  in.  He  was  pulling 
off  his  boots. 

"Don't  you  remember,  mother,"  said  he, 
"  how  you  run  back  in  the  house,  an'  said  you 
was  goin'  to  set  that  turkey  an'  plum -pudding 
away,  for  you  was  afraid  to  leave  'em  settin' 
right  out  in  plain  sight  on  the  table,  for  fear  that 
somebody  might  come  in  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  do  remember,"  said  Mrs.  Little.  "  I 
thought  they  looked  'most  too  temptin'.  I  set 
'em  in  the  pantry.  I  thought  Ann  Mary  could 
get  'em  when  she  came  in." 

"  They  ain't  in  the  pantry,"  said  Ann  Mary. 

Her  grandmother  arose  and  went  into  the 
pantry  with  a  masterful  air.  "  Ain't  in  the  pan 
try  ?"  she  repeated.  "  I  don't  s'pose  you  more'n 
gave  one  look." 

Ann  Mary  followed  her  grandmother.  She 
fairly  expected  to  see  the  turkey  and  pudding 
before  her  eyes  on  the  shelf  and  to  admit  that 
she  had  been  mistaken.  Mr.  Little  also  followed, 
and  they  all  stood  in  the  pantry  and  looked  about. 

"  I  guess  they  ain't  here,  mother,"  said  Mr. 
Little.  "  Can't  you  think  where  you  set  'em?" 

The  old  woman  took  up  the  lamp  and  stepped 
out  of  the  pantry  with  dignity.  "  I've  set  'em 
somewhere,"  said  she,  in  a  curt  voice,  "  an'  I'll 


ANN   MARY 


find  'em  in  the  mornin'.  You  don't  want  any 
turkey  or  plum-puddin'  to-night,  neither  of  you !" 

But  Mrs.  Little  did  not  find  the  turkey  and  the 
plum-pudding  in  the  morning.  Some  days  went 
by,  and  their  whereabouts  was  as  much  a  mys 
tery  as  ever.  Mrs.  Little  could  not  remember 
where  she  had  put  them ;  but  it  had  been  in  some 
secure  hiding-place,  since  her  own  wit  which  had 
placed  them  there  could  not  find  it  out.  She  was 
so  mortified  and  worried  over  it  that  she  was 
nearly  ill.  She  tried  to  propound  the  theory, 
and  believe  in  it  herself,  that  she  had  really  set 
the  turkey  and  the  pudding  in  the  pantry,  and 
that  they  had  been  stolen ;  but  she  was  too  hon 
est.  "  I've  heerd  of  folks  put  tin'  things  in  such 
safe  places  that  they  couldn't  find  'em,  before 
now,"  said  she ;  "  but  I  never  heerd  of  losin'  a 
turkey  an'  a  plum-puddin'  that  way.  I  dunno 
but  I'm  losin'  what  little  wits  I  ever  did  have." 
She  went  about  with  a  humble  and  resentful  air. 
She  promised  Ann  Mary  that  she  would  cook  an 
other  turkey  and  pudding  the  first  of  the  week,  if 
the  missing  ones  were  not  found. 

Sunday  came  and  they  were  not  discovered. 
It  was  a  pleasant  day,  and  the  Littles  went  to 
the  village  church.  Ann  Mary  looked  over 
across  the  church  after  they  were  seated  and  saw 
Loretta,  with  the  pretty  brown  frizzes  over  her 


HER   TWO   THANKSGIVINGS  61 

forehead,  sitting  between  her  father  and  mother, 
and  she  wondered  when  Loretta  had  come  home. 

The  choir  sang  and  the  minister  prayed.  Sud 
denly  Ann  Mary  saw  him,  standing  there  in  the 
pulpit,  unfold  a  paper.  Then  the  minister  "began 
to  read  the  Thanksgiving  Proclamation.  Ann 
Mary  cast  one  queer  glance  at  her  grandmother, 
who  returned  it  with  one  of  inexpressible  dignity 
and  severity. 

As  soon  as  meeting  was  done,  her  grandmother 
clutched  her  by  the  arm.  "Don't  you  say  a 
word  about  it  to  anybody,"  she  whispered.  "  You 
mind!" 

When  they  were  in  the  sleigh  going  home  she 
charged  her  husband.  "  You  mind,  you  keep  still, 
father,"  said  she.  "It  '11  be  town-talk  if  you 
don't." 

The  old  man  chuckled.  "  Don't  you  know,  I 
said  once  that  I  had  kind  of  an  idee  that  Thanks- 
givin'  weren't  quite  so  early,  and  you  shut  me 
up,  mother,"  he  remarked.  He  looked  good- 
naturedly  malicious. 

"  Well,  I  dunno  as  it's  anything  so  very  queer," 
said  Mrs.  Little.  "  It  comes  a  whole  week  later 
than  it  did  last  year,  and  I  s'posed  we'd  missed 
hearin'  the  proclamation." 

The  next  day  a  letter  arrived  saying  that  Lucy 
and  her  father  and  mother  were  coming  to  spend 


62  ANN   MAfcY 

Thanksgiving.  "I  feel  jest  about  beat,"  Mrs. 
Little  said,  when  she  read  the  letter. 

Keally,  she  did  feel  about  at  her  wit's  end.  The 
turkey  and  pudding  were  not  yet  found,  and  she 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  not  dare 
wait  much  longer  without  providing  more.  She 
knew  that  another  turkey  must  be  procured,  at 
all  events.  However,  she  waited  until  the  last 
minute  Wednesday  afternoon,  then  she  went  to 
work  mixing  a  pudding.  Mr.  Little  had  gone  to 
the  store  for  the  turkey.  "  Sam  White  was  over 
there,  an'  he  said  he  thought  we  was  goin'  right 
into  turkeys  this  year,"  he  reported  when  he  got 
home. 

That  night  the  guests  arrived.  Thanksgiving 
morning  Lucy  and  Ann  Mary  and  their  grand 
father  and  Lucy's  father  and  mother  were  all 
going  to  meeting.  Mrs.  Little  was  to  stay  at 
home  and  cook  the  dinner. 

Thanksgiving  morning  Mr.  Little  made  a  fire 
in  the  best  parlor  air-tight  stove,  and  just  before 
they  started  for  meeting  Lucy  and  Ann  Mary 
were  in  the  room.  Lucy,  in  the  big  rocking-chair 
that  was  opposite  the  sofa,  was  rocking  to  and 
fro  and  talking.  Ann  Mary  sat  near  the  window. 
Each  of  the  little  girls  had  on  her  coat  and  hat. 

Suddenly  Lucy  stopped  rocking  and  looked  in 
tently  over  towards  the  sofa. 


HER  TWO   THANKSGIVINGS  63 

"What  you  lookin'  at,  Lucy?"  asked  Ann 
Mary,  curiously. 

Lucy  still  looked.  "Why — I  was  wondering 
what  was  under  that  sofa,"  said  she,  slowly.  Then 
she  turned  to  Ann  Mary,  and  her  face  was  quite 
pale  and  startled — she  had  heard  the  turkey  and 
pudding  story.  "  Oh,  Ann  Mary,  it  does  look — 
like— oh— " 

Both  little  girls  rushed  to  the  sofa,  and  threw 
themselves  on  the  floor.  "  Oh,  oh,  oh !"  they 
shrieked.  "Grandma  —  mother!  Come  quick, 
come  quick !" 

When  the  others  came  in,  there  sat  Ann  Mary 
and  Lucy  on  the  floor,  and  between  them  were 
the  turkey  and  the  plum-pudding,  each  carefully 
covered  with  a  snow-white  napkin. 

Mrs.  Little  was  quite  pale  and  trembling.  "  I 
remember  now,"  said  she,  faintly,  "  I  run  in  here 
with  'em." 

She  was  so  overcome  that  the  others  tried  to 
take  it  quietly  and  not  to  laugh  much.  But  every 
little  while,  after  Lucy  and  Ann  Mary  were 
seated  in  church,  they  would  look  at  each  other 
and  have  to  put  their  handkerchiefs  to  their 
faces.  However,  Ann  Mary  tried  hard  to  listen 
to  the  sermon,  and  to  behave  well.  In  the 
depths  of  her  childish  heart  she  felt  grateful  and 
happy.  There,  by  her  side,  sat  her  dear  Lucy, 


64  ANN   MARY — HER   TWO   THANKSGIVINGS 

whose  sweet  little  face  peeped  out  from  a  furry 
winter  hat.  Just  across  the  aisle  was  Loretta, 
who  was  coming  in  the  evening,  and  then  they 
would  pop  corn  and  make  nut-candy.  At  home 
there  was  the  beautiful  new  turkey  and  unlimited 
pudding  and  good  cheer,  and  all  disappointment 
and  mystery  were  done  away  with. 

Ann  Mary  felt  as  if  all  her  troubles  would  be 
followed  by  thanksgivings. 


ANN  LIZT'S  PATCHWORK 


ANN  LIZY  was  invited  to  spend  the  afternoon 
and  take  tea  with  her  friend  Jane  Baxter,  and 
she  was  ready  to  set  forth  about  one  o'clock. 
That  was  the  fashionable  hour  for  children  and 
their  elders  to  start  when  they  were  invited  out 
to  spend  the  afternoon. 

Ann  Lizy  had  on  her  best  muslin  delaine  dress, 
her  best  embroidered  pantalets,  her  black  silk 
apron,  and  her  flat  straw  hat  with  long  blue  rib 
bon  streamers.  She  stood  in  the  south  room — 
the  sitting-room — before  her  grandmother,  who 
was  putting  some  squares  of  patchwork,  with 
needle,  thread,  and  scissors,  into  a  green  silk  bag 
embroidered  with  roses  in  bead-work. 

"There,  Ann  Lizy,"  said  her  grandmother, 
"  you  may  take  my  bag  if  you  are  real  careful  of 
it,  and  won't  lose  it.  When  you  get  to  Jane  s 
you  lay  it  on  the  table,  and  don't  have  it  round 
when  you're  playin'  out-doors." 


66  ANN   LIZY'S   PATCHWORK 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ann  Lizy.  She  was  look 
ing  with  radiant,  admiring  eyes  at  the  bag — its 
cluster  of  cunningly  wrought  pink  roses  upon  the 
glossy  green  field  of  silk.  Still  there  was  a  seri 
ous  droop  to  her  mouth ;  she  knew  there  was  a 
bitter  to  this  sweet. 

"Now,"  said  her  grandmother,  "I've  put  four 
squares  of  patchwork  in  the  bag ;  they're  all  cut 
and  basted  nice,  and  you  must  sew  'em  all,  over 
and  over,  before  you  play  any.  Sew  'em  real 
fine  and  even,  or  you'll  have  to  pick  the  stitches 
out  when  you  get  home." 

Ann  Lizy's  radiant  eyes  faded ;  she  hung  her 
head.  She  calculated  swiftly  that  she  could  not 
finish  the  patchwork  before  four  o'clock,  and 
that  would  leave  her  only  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
eat  supper  and  play  with  Jane,  for  she  would 
have  to  come  home  at  half -past  five.  "  Can't  I 
take  two,  and  do  the  other  two  to-morrow,  grand 
ma  ?"  said  she. 

Her  grandmother  straightened  herself  disap 
provingly.  She  was  a  tall,  wiry  old  woman  with 
strong,  handsome  features  showing  through  her 
wrinkles.  She  had  been  so  energetic  all  her  life, 
and  done  so  much  work,  that  her  estimation  of 
it  was  worn,  like  scales.  Four  squares  of  patch 
work  sewed  with  very  fine  even  stitches  had,  to 
her,  no  weight  at  all ;  it  did  not  seem  like  work. 


67 

<l>  Well,  if  a  great  girl  like  you  can't  sew  four 
squares  of  patchwork  in  an  arternoon,  I  wouldn't 
tell  of  it,  Ann  Lizy,"  said  she.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you'd  say  if  you  had  to  work  the  way  I  did 
at  your  age.  If  you  can't  have  time  enough  to 
play  and  do  a  little  thing  like  that,  you'd  better 
stay  at  home.  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  you  idle  a 
whole  arternoon,  if  I  know  it.  Time's  worth 
too  much  to  be  wasted  that  way." 

"  I'd  sew  the  others  to-morrow,"  pleaded  Ann 
Lizy,  faintly. 

"  Oh,  you  wouldn't  do  it  half  so  easy  to-mor 
row  ;  you've  got  to  pick  the  currants  for  the  jelP 
to-morrow.  Besides,  that  doesn't  make  any  dif 
ference.  To-day's  work  is  to-day's  work,  and  it 
hasn't  anything  to  do  with  to-morrow's.  It's  no 
excuse  for  idlin'  one  day,  because  you  do  work 
the  next.  You  take  that  patchwork,  and  sit 
right  down  and  sew  it  as  soon  as  you  get  there 
— don't  put  it  off — and  sew  it  nice,  too,  or  you 
can  stay  at  home — just  which  you  like." 

Ann  Lizy  sighed,  but  reached  out  her  hand  for 
the  bag.  "  Now  be  careful  and  not  lose  it,"  said 
her  grandmother,  "  and  be  a  good  girl." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Don't  run  too  hard,  nor  go  to  climbin'  walls, 
and  get  your  best  dress  torn." 

"  No,  ma'am." 

5 


"  And  only  one  piece  of  cake  at  tea-time." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  start  for  home  at  half -past  five." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Little  Ann  Lizy  Jennings,  as  she  went  down 
the  walk  between  the  rows  of  pinks,  had  a  be 
wildered  feeling  that  she  had  been  to  Jane  Bax 
ter's  to  tea,  and  was  home  again. 

Her  parents  were  dead,  and  she  lived  with  her 
Grandmother  Jennings,  who  made  her  childhood 
comfortable  and  happy,  except  that  at  times  she 
seemed  taken  off  her  childish  feet  by  the  energy 
and  strong  mind  of  the  old  woman,  and  so  swung 
a  little  way  through  the  world  in  her  wake. 
But  Ann  Lizy  received  no  harm  by  it. 

Ann  Lizy  went  down  the  road  with  the  bead 
bag  on  her  arm.  She  toed  out  primly,  for  she 
had  on  her  best  shoes.  A  little  girl,  whom  she 
knew,  stood  at  the  gate  in  every-day  clothes,  and 
Ann  Lizy  bowed  to  her  in  the  way  she  had  seen 
the  parson's  wife  bow,  when  out  making  calls  in 
her  best  black  silk  and  worked  lace  veil.  The 
parson's  wife  was  young  and  pretty,  and  Ann 
Lizy  admired  her.  It  was  quite  a  long  walk  to 
Jane  Baxter's,  but  it  was  a  beautiful  afternoon, 
and  the  road  was  pleasant,  although  there  were 
not  many  houses.  There  were  green  fields  and 
flowering  bushes  at  the  sides,  and,  some  of  the 


ANN    LIZY's    PATCHWORK  69 

way,  elm-trees  arching  over  it.  Ann  Lizy  would 
have  been  very  happy  had  it  not  been  for  the 
patchwork.  She  had  already  pieced  one  patch- 
work  quilt,  and  her  grandmother  displayed  it  to 
people  with  pride,  saying,  "  Ann  Lizy  pieced  that 
before  she  was  eight  years  old." 

Ann  Lizy  had  not  as  much  ambition  as  her 
grandmother,  now  she  was  engaged  upon  her 
second  quilt,  and  it  looked  to  her  like  a  checked 
and  besprigged  calico  mountain.  She  kept  dwell 
ing  upon  those  four  squares,  over  and  over,  un 
til  she  felt  as  if  each  side  were  as  long  as  the 
Green  Mountains.  She  calculated  again  and 
again  how  little  time  she  would  have  to  play 
with  Jane  —  only  about  an  hour,  for  she  must 
allow  a  half-hour  for  tea.  She  was  not  a  swift 
sewer  when  she  sewed  fine  and  even  stitches, 
and  she  knew  she  could  not  finish  those  squares 
before  four  o'clock.  One  hour! — and  she  and 
Jane  wanted  to  play  dolls,  and  make  wreaths 
out  of  oak -leaves,  and  go  down  in  the  lane 
after  thimbleberries,  and  in  the  garden  for 
gooseberries — there  would  be  no  time  for  any 
thing  ! 

Ann  Lizy's  delicate  little  face  under  the  straw 
flat  grew  more  and  more  sulky  and  distressed, 
her  forehead  wrinkled,  and  her  mouth  pouted. 
She  forgot  to  swing  her  muslin  delaine  skirts 


70 

gracefully,  and  flounced  along  hitting  the  dusty 
meadowsweet  bushes. 

Ann  Lizy  was  about  half-way  to  Jane  Baxter's 
house,  in  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  when  she 
opened  her  bead  bag  and  drew  out  her  pocket-, 
handkerchief — her  grandmother  had  tucked  that 
in  with  the  patchwork  —  and  wiped  her  eyes. 
When  she  replaced  the  handkerchief  she  put  it 
under  the  patchwork,  and  did  not  draw  up  the 
bag  again,  but  went  on,  swinging  it  violently  by 
one  string. 

"When  Ann  Lizy  reached  Jane  Baxter's  gate 
she  gave  a  quick,  scared  glance  at  the  bag.  It 
looked  very  flat  and  limp.  She  did  not  open  it, 
and  she  said  nothing  about  it  to  Jane.  They 
went  out  to  play  in  the  garden.  There  were  so 
many  hollyhocks  there  that  it  seemed  like  a  real 
flower-grove,  and  the  gooseberries  were  ripe. 

Shortly  after  Ann  Lizy  entered  Jane  Baxter's 
house  a  white  horse  and  a  chaise  passed  down 
the  road  in  the  direction  from  which  she  had 
just  come.  There  were  three  persons  in  the 
chaise — a  gentleman,  lady,  and  little  girl.  The 
lady  wore  a  green  silk  pelerine,  and  a  green 
bonnet  with  pink  strings,  and  the  gentleman  a 
blue  coat  and  bell  hat.  The  little  girl  had  pretty 
long,  light  curls,  and  wore  a  white  dress  and 
blue  sash.  She  sat  on  a  little  footstool  down  in 


ANN   LIZY'S   PATCHWORK  71 

front  of  the  seat.  They  were  the  parson's  wife's 
sister,  her  husband,  and  her  little  girl,  and  had 
been  to  visit  at  the  parsonage.  The  gentleman 
drove  the  white  horse  down  the  road,  and  the 
little  girl  looked  sharply  and  happily  at  every 
thing  by  the  way.  All  at  once  she  gave  a  little 
cry — "  Oh,  father,  what's  that  in  the  road  2" 

She  saw  Ann  Lizy's  patchwork,  all  four  squares 
nicely  pinned  together,  lying  beside  the  meadow 
sweet  bushes.  Her  father  stopped  the  horse,  got 
out,  and  picked  up  the  patchwork. 

"  Why,"  said  the  parson's  wife's  sister,  "  some 
little  girl  has  lost  her  patchwork ;  look,  Sally !" 

"She'll  be  sorry,  won't  she?"  said  the  little 
girl,  whose  name  was  Sally. 

The  gentleman  got  back  into  the  chaise,  and 
the  three  rode  off  with  the  patchwork.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  else  to  do ;  there  were  no 
houses  near  and  no  people  of  whom  to  inquire. 
Besides,  four  squares  of  calico  patchwork  were 
not  especially  valuable. 

"  If  we  don't  find  out  who  lost  it,  I'll  put  it 
into  my  quilt,"  said  Sally.  She  studied  the  pat 
terns  of  the  calico  very  happily,  as  they  rode 
along ;  she  thought  them  prettier  than  anything 
she  had.  One  had  pink  roses  on  a  green  ground, 
and  she  thought  that  especially  charming. 

Meantime,  while  Sally  and  her  father  and 


72 

mother  rode  away  in  the  chaise  with  the  patch 
work  to  Whitefield,  ten  miles  distant,  where  their 
house  was,  Ann  Lizy  and  Jane  played  as  fast  as 
they  could.  It  was  four  o'clock  before  they  went 
into  the  house.  Ann  Lizy  opened  her  bag,  which 
she  had  laid  on  the  parlor  table  with  the  Young 
Lady's  Annuals  and  Mrs.  Hemans's  Poems.  "  I 
s'pose  I  must  sew  my  patchwork,"  said  she,  in  a 
miserable,  guilty  little  voice.  Then  she  exclaimed. 
It  was  strange  that,  well  as  she  knew  there  was 
no  patchwork  there,  the  actual  discovery  of 
nothing  at  all  gave  her  a  shock. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  I've — lost  my  patchwork,"  said  Ann  Lizy. 

Jane  called  her  mother,  and  they  condoled 
with  Ann  Lizy.  Ann  Lizy  sat  in  one  of  Mrs. 
Baxter's  rush-bottomed  chairs  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Where  did  you  lose  it  ?"  Mrs.  Baxter  asked. 
"  Don't  cry,  Ann  Lizy,  maybe  we  can  find  it." 

"  I  s'pose  I — lost  it  comin',"  sobbed  Ann  Lizy. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what 't  is,"  said  Mrs.  Bax 
ter  ;  "  you  and  Jane  had  better  run  up  the  road 
a  piece,  and  likely  as  not  you'll  find  it ;  and  I'll 
have  tea  all  ready  when  you  come  home.  Don't 
feel  so  bad,  child,  you'll  find  it,  right  where  you 
dropped  it." 

But  Ann  Lizy  and  Jane,  searching  carefully 
along  the  road,  did  not  find  the  patchwork  where 


73 

it  had  been  dropped.  "  Maybe  it's  blown  away," 
suggested  Jane,  although  there  was  hardly  wind 
enough  that  afternoon  to  stir  a  feather.  And 
the  two  little  girls  climbed  over  the  stone- walls 
and  searched  in  the  fields,  but  they  did  not  find 
the  patchwork.  Then  another  mishap  befell 
Ann  Lizy.  She  tore  a  three-cornered  place  in 
her  best  muslin  delaine,  getting  over  the  wall. 
When  she  saw  that  she  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a 
dreadful  dream.  "  Oh,  what  will  grandma  say !" 
she  wailed. 

"  Maybe  she  won't  scold,"  said  Jane,  consol 
ingly. 

"  Yes,  she  will.     Oh  dear !" 

The  two  little  girls  went  dolefully  home  to  tea. 
There  were  hot  biscuits  and  honey  and  tarts 
and  short  gingerbread  and  custards,  but  Ann 
Lizy  did  not  feel  hungry.  Mrs.  Baxter  tried  to 
comfort  her ;  she  really  saw  not  much  to  mourn 
over,  except  the  rent  in  the  best  dress,  as  four 
squares  of  patchwork  could  easily  be  replaced ; 
she  did  not  see  the  true  inwardness  of  the  case. 

At  half-past  five,  Ann  Lizy,  miserable  and  tear- 
stained,  the  three-cornered  rent  in  her  best  dress 
pinned  up,  started  for  home,  and  then — her  grand 
mother's  beautiful  bead  bag  was  not  to  be  found. 
Ann  Lizy  and  Jane  both  remembered  that  it  had 
been  carried  when  they  set  out  to  find  the  patch- 


74  ANN   LIZY'S   PATCHWORK 

work.    Ann  Lizy  had  meditated  bringing  the 
patchwork  home  in  it. 

"Aunt  Cynthy  made  that  bag  for  grandma," 
said  Ann  Lizy,  in  a  tone  of  dull  despair ;  this 
was  beyond  tears. 

"  Well,  Jane  shall  go  with  you,  and  help  find 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  "  and  I'll  leave  the  tea- 
dishes  and  go  too.  Don't  feel  so  bad,  Ann  Lizy, 
I  know  I  can  find  it." 

But  Mrs.  Baxter  and  Jane  and  Ann  Lizy,  all 
searching,  could  not  find  the  bead  bag.  "  My 
best  handkerchief  was  in  it,"  said  Ann  Lizy.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  all  her  best  things  were  gone. 
She  and  Mrs.  Baxter  and  Jane  made  a  doleful 
little  group  in  the  road.  The  frogs  were  peeping, 
and  the  cows  were  coming  home.  Mrs.  Baxter 
asked  the  boy  who  drove  the  cows  if  he  had  seen 
a  green  bead  bag,  or  four  squares  of  patchwork  ; 
he  stared  and  shook  his  head. 

Ann  Lizy  looked  like  a  wilted  meadow  reed, 
the  blue  streamers  on  her  hat  drooped  dejectedly, 
her  best  shoes  were  all  dusty,  and  the  three-cor 
nered  rent  was  the  feature  of  her  best  muslin  de 
laine  dress  that  one  saw  first.  Then  her  little 
delicate  face  was  all  tear-stains  and  downward 
curves.  She  stood  there  in  the  road  as  if  she 
had  not  courage  to  stir. 

"  Now,  Ann  Lizy,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  "  you'd 


76 


better  run  right  home  and  not  worry.  I  don't 
believe  your  grandma  '11  scold  you  when  you 
tell  her  just  how  't  was." 

Ann  Lizy  shook  her  head.     "  Yes,  she  will." 

"Well,  she'll  be  worrying  about  you  if  you 
ain't  home  before  long,  and  I  guess  you'd  better 
go,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter. 

Ann  Lizy  said  not  another  word ;  she  began 
to  move  dejectedly  towards  home.  Jane  and 
her  mother  called  many  kindly  words  after  her, 
but  she  did  not  heed  them.  She  kept  straight 
on,  walking  slowly  until  she  was  home.  Her 
grandmother  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  for 
her.  She  had  a  blue-yarn  stocking  in  her  hands, 
and  she  was  knitting  fast  as  she  watched. 

"  Ann  Lizy,  where  have  you  been,  late  as  this?" 
she  called  out,  as  Ann  Lizy  came  up  the  walk. 
"It's  arter  six  o'clock." 

Ann  Lizy  continued  to  drag  herself  slowly  for 
ward,  but  she  made  no  reply. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  ?" 

Ann  Lizy  crooked  her  arm  around  her  face 
and  began  to  cry.  Her  grandmother  reached 
down,  took  her  by  the  shoulder,  and  led  her  into 
the  house.  "  What  on  airth  is  the  matter,  child  ?" 
said  she ;  "  have  you  fell  down  ?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  What  does  ail  you,  then  ?    Ann  Lizy  Jen- 


76  ANN   LIZY'S   PATCHWORK 

nings,  how  come  that  great  three-cornered  tear 
in  your  best  dress  ?" 

Ann  Lizy  sobbed. 

"Answer  me." 

"  I— tore  it  gittin'  over— the  wall." 

"  What  were  you  gettin'  over  walls  for  in  your 
best  dress?  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  s'pose 
you'll  have  to  wear  to  meetin'  now.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  not  to  get  over  walls  in  your  best  dress  ? 
Ann  Lizy  Jennings,  where  is  my  lead  lag  ?" 

"I— lost  it." 

"Lost  my  bead  bag?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  How  did  you  lose  it,  eh  ?" 

"  I  lost  it  when— I  was  lookin'  for — my  patch 
work." 

"  Did  you  lose  your  patchwork  2" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"When?" 

"  When  I  was — goin'  over  to — Jane's." 

"  Lost  it  out  of  the  bag  ?" 

Ann  Lizy  nodded,  sobbing. 

"Then  you  went  to  look  for  it  and  lost  the 
bag.  Lost  your  best  pocket-handkerchief,  too  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Old  Mrs.  Jennings  stood  looking  at  Ann  Lizy. 

"  All  that  patchwork,  cut  out  and  basted  jest 
as  nice  as  could  be,  your  best  pocket  -  handker- 


77 

chief  and  my  bead  bag  lost,  and  your  meetin' 
dress  tore,"  said  she ;  "  well,  you've  done  about 
enough  for  one  day.  Take  off  your  things  and 
go  up-stairs  to  bed.  You  can't  go  over  to  Jane 
Baxter's  again  for  one  spell,  and  every  mite  of 
the  patchwork  that  goes  into  the  quilt  you've 
got  to  cut  by  a  thread,  and  baste  yourself,  and 
to-morrow  you've  got  to  hunt  for  that  patch 
work  and  that  bag  till  you  find  'em,  if  it  takes 
you  all  day.  Go  right  along." 

Ann  Lizy  took  off  her  hat  and  climbed  meekly 
up-stairs  and  went  to  bed.  She  did  not  say  her 
prayers  ;  she  lay  there  and  wept.  It  was  about 
half-past  eight,  the  air  coming  through  the  open 
window  was  loud  with  frogs  and  katydids  and 
whippoor wills,  and  the  twilight  was  very  deep, 
when  Ann  Lizy  arose  and  crept  down-stairs.  She 
could  barely  see  her  way. 

There  was  a  candle  lighted  in  the  south  room, 
and  her  grandmother  sat  there  knitting.  Ann 
Lizy,  a  piteous  little  figure  in  her  white  night 
gown,  stood  in  the  door. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  her  grandmother  said,  in 
a  severe  voice  that  had  a  kindly  inflection  in  it. 

"  Grandma—" 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  lost  my  patchwork  on  purpose.  I  didn't 
want — to  sew  it." 


78  ANN   LIZY'S   PATCHWORK 

"  Lost  your  patchwork  on  purpose !" 

"  Yes — ma'am,"  sobbed  Ann  Lizy. 

"  Let  it  drop  out  of  the  bag  on  purpose  2" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  you  did  a  dreadful  wicked  thing  then. 
Go  right  back  to  bed." 

Ann  Lizy  went  back  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  Re 
morse  no  longer  gnawed  keenly  enough  at  her 
clear,  childish  conscience  to  keep  her  awake,  now 
her  sin  was  confessed.  She  said  her  prayers  and 
went  to  sleep.  Although  the  next  morning  the 
reckoning  came,  the  very  worst  punishment  was 
over  for  her.  Her  grandmother  held  the  judi 
cious  use  of  the  rod  to  be  a  part  of  her  duty  to 
wards  her  beloved  little  orphan  granddaughter, 
so  she  switched  Ann  Lizy  with  a  little  rod  of 
birch,  and  sent  her  forth  full  of  salutary  tinglings 
to  search  for  the  bead  bag  and  the  patchwork. 
All  the  next  week  Ann  Lizy  searched  the  fields 
and  road  for  the  missing  articles,  when  she  was 
not  cutting  calico  patchwork  by  a  thread  and 
sewing  over  and  over.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
life  was  made  up  of  those  two  occupations,  but 
at  the  end  of  a  week  the  search,  so  far  as  the 
bead  bag  was  concerned,  came  to  an  end. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  the  parson's  wife 
called  on  old  Mrs.  Jennings.  The  sweet,  gentle 
young  lady  in  her  black  silk  dress,  her  pink 


ANN   LIZY'S   PATCHWORK  79 

cheeks,  and  smooth  waves  of  golden  hair  gleam 
ing  through  her  worked  lace  veil  entered  the 
north  room,  which  was  the  parlor,  and  sat  down 
in  the  rocking-chair.  Ann  Lizy  and  her  grand 
mother  sat  opposite,  and  they  both  noticed  at  the 
same  moment  that  the  parson's  wife  held  in  her 
hand — the  lead  lag! 

Ann  Lizy  gave  a  little  involuntary  "  oh ;"  her 
grandmother  shook  her  head  fiercely  at  her,  and 
the  parson's  wife  noticed  nothing.  She  went  on 
talking  about  the  pinks  out  in  the  yard,  in  her 
lovely  low  voice. 

As  soon  as  she  could,  old  Mrs.  Jennings  ex 
cused  herself  and  beckoned  Ann  Lizy  to  follow 
her  out  of  the  room.  Then,  while  she  was  ar 
ranging  a  square  of  pound-cake  and  a  little  glass 
of  elderberry  wine  on  a  tray,  she  charged  Ann 
Lizy  to  say  nothing  about  the  bead  bag  to  the 
parson's  wife.  "  Mind  you  act  as  if  you  didn't 
see  it,"  said  she ;  "  don't  sit  there  lookin'  at  it 
that  way." 

"But  it's  your  bead  bag,  grandma,"  said  Ann 
Lizy,  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"Don't  you  say  anything,"  admonished  her 
grandmother.  "  Now  carry  this  tray  in,  and  be 
careful  you  don't  spill  the  elderberry  wine." 

Poor  Ann  Lizy  tried  her  best  not  to  look  at 
the  bead  bag,  while  the  parson's  wife  ate  pound- 


80 

cake,  sipped  the  elderberry  wine,  and  conversed 
in  her  sweet,  gracious  way;  but  it  did  seem 
finally  to  her  as  if  it  were  the  bead  bag  instead 
of  the  parson's  wife  that  was  making  the  call. 
She  kept  wondering  if  the  parson's  wife  would 
not  say,  "  Mrs.  Jennings,  is  this  your  bead  bag  ?" 
but  she  did  not.  She  made  the  call  and  took 
leave,  and  the  bead  bag  was  never  mentioned. 
It  was  odd,  too,  that  it  was  not ;  for  the  parson's 
wife,  who  had  found  the  bead  bag,  had  taken  it 
with  her  on  her  round  of  calls  that  afternoon, 
partly  to  show  it  and  find  out,  if  she  could,  who 
had  lost  it.  But  here  it  was  driven  out  of  her 
mind  by  the  pound-cake  and  elderberry  wine,  or 
else  she  did  not  think  it  likely  that  an  old 
lady  like  Mrs.  Jennings  could  have  owned  the 
bag.  Younger  ladies  than  she  usually  carried 
them.  However  it  was,  she  went  away  with  the 


"Why  didn't  she  ask  if  it  was  yours?"  in 
quired  Ann  Lizy,  indignant  in  spite  of  her  ad 
miration  for  the  parson's  wife. 

"Hush,"  said  her  grandmother.  "You  mind 
you  don't  say  a  word  out  about  this,  Ann  Lizy. 
I  ain't  never  carried  it,  and  she  didn't  suspect." 

Now,  the  bead  bag  was  found  after  this  un 
satisfactory  fashion ;  but  Ann  Lizy  never  went 
down  the  road  without  looking  for  the  patch- 


ANN   LIZY'S   PATCHWORK  81 

work.  She  never  dreamed  how  little  Sally  Put 
nam,  the  minister's  wife's  niece,  was  in  the  mean- 
time  sewing  these  four  squares  over  and  over, 
getting  them  ready  to  go  into  her  quilt.  It  was 
a  month  later  before  she  found  it  out,  and  it  was 
strange  that  she  discovered  it  at  all. 

It  so  happened  that,  one  afternoon  in  the  last 
of  August,  old  Mrs.  Jennings  dressed  herself  in 
her  best  black  bombazine,  her  best  bonnet  and 
mantilla  and  mitts,  and  also  dressed  Ann  Lizy 
in  her  best  muslin  delaine,  exquisitely  mended, 
and  set  out  to  make  a  call  on  the  parson's  wife. 
When  they  arrived  they  found  a  chaise  and 
white  horse  out  in  the  parsonage  yard,  and  the 
parson's  wife's  sister  and  family  there  on  a  visit. 
An  old  lady,  Mrs.  White,  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Jen 
nings,  was  also  making  a  call. 

Little  Ann  Lizy  and  Sally  Putnam  were  in 
troduced  to  each  other,  and  Ann  Lizy  looked  ad 
miringly  at  Sally's  long  curls  and  low-necked 
dress,  which  had  gold  catches  in  the  sleeves. 
They  sat  and  smiled  shyly  at  each  other. 

"  Show  Ann  Lizy-  your  patchwork,  Sally,"  the 
parson's  wife  said,  presently.  "  Sally  has  got 
almost  enough  patchwork  for  a  quilt,  and  she 
has  brought  it  over  to  show  me,"  she  added. 

Ann  Lizy  colored  to  her  little  slender  neck; 
patchwork  was  nowadays  a  sore  subject  with  her, 


82  ANN   LIZY'S    PATCHWORK 

but  she  looked  on  as  Sally,  proud  and  smiling, 
displayed  her  patchwork. 

Suddenly  she  gave  a  little  cry.  There  was  one 
of  her  squares !  The  calico  with  roses  on  a  green 
ground  was  in  Sally's  patchwork. 

Her  grandmother  shook  her  head  energetically 
at  her,  but  old  Mrs.  White  had  on  her  spectacles, 
and  she,  too,  had  spied  the  square. 

"  Why,  Miss  Jennings,"  she  cried,  "  that's  jest 
like  that  dress  you  had  so  long  ago !" 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Sally's  mother,  quickly. 
"  Why,  yes ;  that  is  the  very  square  you  found, 
Sally.  That  is  one ;  there  were  four  of  them, 
all  cut  and  basted.  Why,  this  little  girl  didn't 
lose  them,  did  she  ?" 

Then  it  all  came  out.  The  parson's  wife  was 
quick-witted,  and  she  thought  of  the  bead  bag. 
Old  Mrs.  Jennings  was  polite,  and  said  it  did  not 
matter ;  but  when  she  and  Ann  Lizy  went  home 
they  had  the  bead  bag,  with  the  patchwork  and 
the  best  pocket-handkerchief  in  it. 

It  had  been  urged  that  little  Sally  Putnam 
should  keep  the  patchwork,  since  she  had  sewed 
it,  but  her  mother  was  not  willing. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  this  poor  little  girl  lost  it, 
and  Sally  mustn't  keep  it;  it  wouldn't  be 
right." 

Suddenly  Ann  Lizy  straightened  herself.    Her 


cheeks  were  blazing  red,  but  her  black  eyes  were 
brave. 

"  I  lost  that  patchwork  on  purpose,"  said  she. 
"  I  didn't  want  to  sew  it.  Then  I  lost  the  bag 
while  I  was  lookin'  for  it." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl  to  tell  of  it,"  said  Sally's 
mother,  finally. 

Ann  Lizy's  grandmother  shook  her  head  mean 
ingly  at  Mrs.  Putnam. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  she.  "  Own- 
in'-up  takes  away  some  of  the  sin,  but  it  don't 
o£" 

But  when  she  and  Ann  Lizy  were  on  their 
homeward  road  she  kept  glancing  down  at  her 
granddaughter's  small  face.  It  struck  her  that 
it  was  not  so  plump  and  rosy  as  it  had  been. 

"I  think  you've  had  quite  a  lesson  by  this 
time  about  that  patchwork,"  she  remarked. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ann  Lizy. 

They  walked  a  little  farther.  The  golden-rod 
and  the  asters  were  in  blossom  now,  and  the 
road  was  bordered  with  waving  fringes  of  blue 
and  gold.  They  came  in  sight  of  Jane  Baxter's 
house. 

"  You  may  stop,  in  Jane  Baxter's,  if  you  want 
to,"  said  old  Mrs.  Jennings,  "  and  ask  her  mother 
if  she  can  come  over  and  spend  the  day  with  you 


84  ANN   LIZY's   PATCHWORK 

to-morrow.  And  tell  her  I  say  she'd  better  not 
bring  her  sewing,  and  she'd  better  not  wear  her 
best  dress,  for  you  and  she  ain't  goin'  to  sew 
any,  and  mebbe  you'll  like  to  go  berryin,'  and 
play  out-doors." 


THE  LITTLE  PERSIAN  PRINCESS 


"AND  you  must  spin  faster,  Dorothy,  or  you'll 
go  to  bed  without  your  supper,"  said  Dame  Betsy. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Dorothy.  Then  she 
twirled  the  wheel  so  fast  that  the  spokes  were 
a  blur. 

Dorothy  was  a  pretty  little  girl.  She  had  a 
small  pink-and- white  face ;  her  hair  was  closely 
cropped  and  looked  like  a  little  golden  cap,  and 
her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  had  been  the  flowers  of 
the  flax  which  she  was  spinning.  She  wore  an 
indigo-blue  frock,  and  she  looked  very  short  and 
slight  beside  the  wheel. 

Dorothy  spun,  Dame  Betsy  tended  a  stew-ket 
tle  that  was  hanging  from  the  crane  in  the  fire 
place,  and  the  eldest  of  Dame  Betsy's  six  daugh 
ters  sat  on  the  bench  beside  the  cottage  door  and 
ate  honey-cakes.  The  other  daughters  had  ar 
rayed  themselves  in  their  best  tuckers  and 
plumed  hats  and  farthingales,  spread  their  ruffled 
parasols,  and  gone  to  walk. 


86  THE   LITTLE   PERSIAN   PRINCESS 

Dame  Betsy  had  wished  the  oldest  daughter 
to  go  with  her  sisters ;  but  she  was  rather  indo 
lent,  so  she  dressed  herself  in  her  best,  and  sat 
down  on  the  bench  beside  the  door,  with  a  plate 
of  honey -cakes  of  which  she  was  very  fond.  She 
held  up  her  parasol  to  shield  her  face,  and  also 
to  display  the  parasol.  It  was  covered  with  very 
bright  green  satin,  and  had  a  wreath  of  pink  roses 
for  a  border.  The  sun  shone  directly  into  the 
cottage,  and  the  row  of  pewter  plates  on  the 
dresser  glittered;  one  could  see  them  through 
the  doorway.  The  front  yard  of  Dame  Betsy's 
cottage  was  like  a  little  grove  with  lemon-color 
and  pink  hollyhocks ;  one  had  to  look  directly 
up  the  path  to  see  the  eldest  daughter  sitting  on 
the  bench  eating  honey-cakes.  She  was  a  very 
homely  girl.  All  Dame  Betsy's  daughters  were 
so  plain  and  ill-tempered  that  they  had  no  suitors, 
although  they  wralked  abroad  every  day. 

Dame  Betsy  placed  her  whole  dependence  upon 
the  linen  chests  when  she  planned  to  marry  her 
daughters.  At  the  right  of  her  cottage  stretched 
a  great  field  of  flax  that  looked  now  like  a  blue 
sea,  and  it  rippled  like  a  sea  when  the  wind 
struck  it.  Dame  Betsy  and  Dorothy  made  the 
flax  into  linen  for  the  daughters'  dowries.  They 
had  already  two  great  chests  of  linen  apiece,  and 
they  were  to  have  chests  filled  until  there  wer§ 


THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN   PRINCESS  87 

enough  to  attract  suitors.  Every  little  while 
Dame  Betsy  invited  all  the  neighboring  house 
wives  to  tea ;  then  she  opened  the  chests  and  un 
rolled  the  shining  lengths  of  linen,  perfumed  with 
lavender  and  rosemary.  "My  dear  daughters 
will  have  all  this,  and  more  also,  when  they 
marry,"  she  would  remark.  The  housewives 
would  go  home  and  mention  it  to  their  sons,  for 
they  themselves  were  tempted  by  the  beautiful 
linen ;  but  there  it  would  end.  The  sons  would 
not  go  to  woo  Dame  Betsy's  homely,  ill-natured 
daughters. 

Dorothy  spun  as  fast  as  she  was  able ;  Dame 
Betsy  kept  a  sharp  watch  upon  her  as  she  stirred 
the  stew.  Dorothy  wanted  some  of  the  stew  for 
her  supper.  It  had  a  delicious  odor,  and  she  was 
very  faint  and  hungry.  She  did  not  have  a  great 
deal  to  eat  at  any  time,  as  she  lived  principally 
upon  the  scraps  from  the  table,  and  the  daugh 
ters  were  all  large  eaters.  She  also  worked  very 
hard,  and  never  had  any  time  to  play.  She  was 
a  poor  child  whom  Dame  Betsy  had  taken  from 
the  almshouse,  and  she  had  no  relatives  but  an 
old  grandmother.  She  had  very  few  kind  words 
said  to  her  during  the  day,  and  she  used  often  to 
cry  herself  to  sleep  at  night. 

Presently  Dame  Betsy  went  down  to  the  store 
to  buy  some  pepper  to  put  in  the  stew,  but  as 


88  THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN    PRINCESS 

she  went  out  of  the  door  she  spoke  to  the  eldest 
daughter,  and  told  her  to  go  into  the  house  and 
mend  a  rent  in  her  apron.  "  Since  you  were  too 
lazy  to  go  to  walk  with  your  sisters  you  must  go 
into  the  house  and  mend  your  apron,"  said  she. 
The  eldest  daughter  pouted,  but  she  made  no  re 
ply.  Just  as  soon  as  her  mother  was  out  of  hear 
ing  she  called  Dorothy.  "  Dorothy,  come  here 
a  minute !"  she  cried,  imperatively.  Dorothy 
left  her  wheel  and  went  to  the  door.  "  Look 
here,"  said  the  eldest  daughter,  "  I  have  one 
honey-cake  left,  and  I  have  eaten  all  I  want.  I 
will  give  you  this  if  you  will  mend  my  apron 
for  me." 

Dorothy  eyed  the  honey -cake  wistfully,  but 
she  replied  that  she  did  not  dare  to  leave  her 
spinning  to  mend  the  apron. 

"  Why  can't  you  mend  it  in  the  night  ?"  asked 
the  eldest  daughter. 

"  I  will  do  that,"  replied  Dorothy,  eagerly,  and 
she  held  out  her  hand  for  the  honey-cake.  Just 
as  she  did  so  she  saw  the  little  boy  that  lived 
next  door  peeping  through  his  fence.  His  beau 
tiful  little  face,  with  his  red  cheeks  and  black 
eyes,  looked,  through  the  pickets,  like  a  damask- 
rose.  Dorothy  ran  swiftly  over  to  him  with  her 
honey-cake.  "  You  shall  have  half  of  it,"  said 
she,  and  she  quickly  broke  the  cake  in  halves, 


THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN    PRINCESS  89 

and  gave  one  of  them  to  the  little  boy.  He 
lived  with  his  old  grandmother,  and  they  were 
very  poor;  it  was  hard  for  them  to  get  the 
coarsest  porridge  to  eat.  The  little  boy  often 
stood  looking  through  the  fence  and  smiling  at 
Dorothy,  and  the  old  grandmother  spoke  kindly 
to  her  whenever  she  had  an  opportunity. 

The  little  boy  stood  on  one  side  of  the  fence 
and  Dorothy  on  the  other,  and  they  ate  the 
honey -cake.  Then  Dorothy  ran  back  to  the 
house  and  fell  to  spinning  again.  She  spun  so 
fast,  to  make  up  for  the  lost  time,  that  one  could 
not  see  the  wheel -spokes  at  all,  and  the  room 
hummed  like  a  hive  of  bees.  But,  fast  as  she 
spun,  Dame  Betsy,  when  she  returned,  discovered 
that  she  had  been  idling,  and  said  that  she  must 
go  without  her  supper.  Poor  Dorothy  could  not 
help  weeping  as  she  twirled  the  wheel,  she  was 
so  hungry,  and  the  honey -cake  had  been  very 
small. 

Dame  Betsy  dished  up  the  stew  and  put  the 
spoons  and  bowls  on  the  table,  and  soon  the  five 
absent  daughters  came  home,  rustling  their 
flounces  and  flirting  their  parasols. 

They  all  sat  down  to  the  table  and  began  to 
eat,  while  Dorothy  stood  at  her  wheel  and  sadly 
spun. 

They  had  eaten  all  the  stew  except  a  little, 


90  THE   LITTLE   PERSIAN    PBINCESS 

just  about  enough  for  a  cat,  when  a  little  shadow 
fell  across  the  floor. 

"  Why,  who's  coming?"  whispered  Dame  Betsy, 
and  directly  all  the  daughters  began  to  smooth 
their  front  hair;  each  thought  it  might  be  a 
suitor. 

But  everything  that  they  could  see  entering 
the  door  was  a  beautiful  gray  cat.  She  came  step 
ping  across  the  floor  with  a  dainty,  velvet  tread. 
She  had  a  tail  like  a  plume,  and  she  trailed  it 
on  the  floor  as  she  walked ;  her  fur  was  very  soft 
and  long,  and  caught  the  light  like  silver ;  she 
had  delicate  tufted  ears,  and  her  shining  eyes 
were  like  yellow  jewels. 

"  It's  nothing  but  a  cat !"  cried  the  daughters 
in  disgust,  and  Dame  Betsy  arose  to  get  the 
broom ;  she  hated  cats.  That  decided  the  daugh 
ters  ;  they  also  hated  cats,  but  they  liked  to  op 
pose  their  mother.  So  they  insisted  on  keeping 
the  cat. 

There  was  much  wrangling,  but  the  daughters 
were  too  much  for  Dame  Betsy;  the  beautiful 
cat  was  allowed  to  remain  on  the  hearth,  and  the 
remnant  of  the  stew  was  set  down  there  for  her. 
But,  to  every  one's  amazement,  she  refused  to 
touch  it.  She  sat  purring,  with  her  little  silvery 
paws  folded,  her  plumy  tail  swept  gracefully 
around  her,  and  quite  ignored  the  stew. 


THE   LITTLE   PERSIAN   PRINCESS  91 

"  I  will  take  it  up  and  give  it  to  the  pig,"  said 
Dame  Betsy. 

"  No,  no !"  cried  the  daughters ;  "  leave  it,  and 
perhaps  she  will  eat  it  by-and-by." 

So  the  stew  was  left  upon  the  hearth.  In  the 
excitement  Dorothy  had  stopped  spinning,  and 
nobody  had  observed  it.  Suddenly  Dame  Betsy 
noticed  that  the  wheel  was  silent. 

"  Why  are  you  not  spinning,  miss  ?"  she  asked, 
sharply.  "  Are  you  stopping  work  to  look  at  a 
cat?" 

But  Dorothy  made  no  reply ;  she  paid  no  at 
tention  whatever:  she  continued  to  stare  at  the 
cat;  she  was  quite  pale,  and  her  blue  eyes  were 
very  large.  And  no  wonder,  for  she  saw,  instead 
of  a  cat,  a  beautiful  little  princess,  with  eyes  like 
stars,  in  a  trailing  robe  of  gray  velvet  covered 
with  silver  embroidery,  and  instead  of  a  purr  she 
heard  a  softly-hummed  song.  Dame  Betsy  seized 
Dorothy  by  the  arm. 

"  To  your  work !"  she  cried. 

And  Dorothy  began  to  spin ;  but  she  was  trem 
bling  from  head  to  foot,  and  every  now  and  then 
she  glanced  at  the  princess  on  the  hearth. 

The  daughters,  in  their  best  gowns,  sat  with 
their  mother  around  the  hearth  until  nine  o'clock ; 
then  Dorothy  was  ordered  to  leave  her  wheel,  the 
cottage  was  locked  up,  and  everybody  went  to  bed 


92  THE   LITTLE   PERSIAN   PRINCESS 

Dorothy's  bed  was  a  little  bundle  of  straw  up 
in  the  garret  under  the  eaves.  She  was  very 
tired  when  she  lay  down,  but  did  not  dare  to 
sleep,  for  she  remembered  her  promise  to  mend 
the  eldest  daughter's  apron.  So  she  waited  until 
the  house  was  still ;  then  she  arose  and  crept  soft 
ly  down-stairs. 

The  fire  on  the  hearth  was  still  burning,  and 
there  sat  the  princess,  and  the  sweet  hum  of  her 
singing  filled  the  room.  But  Dorothy  could  not 
understand  a  word  of  the  song,  because  it  was  in 
the  Persian  language.  She  stood  in  the  doorway 
and  trembled ;  she  did  not  know  what  to  do.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  must  be  losing  her  wits 
to  see  a  princess  where  every  one  else  saw  a  cat. 
Still  she  could  not  doubt  the  evidence  of  her  own 
eyes.  Finally  she  advanced  a  little  way  and 
courtesied  very  low.  The  princess  stopped 
singing  at  once.  She  arose  in  a  stately  fash 
ion,  and  fastened  her  bright  eyes  upon  Dor 
othy. 

"  So  you  know  me  ?"  said  she. 

Dorothy  courtesied  again. 

"  Are  you  positive  that  I  am  not  a  cat  ?" 

Dorothy  courtesied. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  a  cat,"  said  the  princess.  "  I 
am  a  true  princess  from  Persia,  travelling  in 
cognita.  You  are  the  first  person  who  has 


THE    LITTLE   PERSIAN    PRINCESS  93 

pierced  my  disguise.  You  must  have  very  ex 
traordinary  eyes.  Aren't  you  hungry?" 

Dorothy  courtesied. 

"Come  here  and  eat  the  stew,"  ordered  the 
princess,  in  a  commanding  tone.  "  Meantime  I 
will  cook  my  own  supper." 

With  that  the  princess  gave  a  graceful  leap 
across  the  floor ;  her  gray  velvet  robe  fluttered 
like  a  gray  wing.  Dorothy  saw  a  little  mouse 
scud  before  her ;  then  in  an  instant  the  princess 
had  him !  But  the  moment  the  princess  lifted 
the  mouse,  he  became  a  gray  pigeon,  all  dressed 
for  cooking. 

The  princess  sat  down  on  the  hearth  and  put 
the  pigeon  on  the  coals  to  broil. 

"  You  had  better  eat  your  stew,"  said  she ;  "  I 
won't  offer  you  any  of  this  pigeon,  because  you 
could  not  help  suspecting  it  was  mouse." 

So  Dorothy  timidly  took  up  the  stew,  and  be 
gan  to  eat  it ;  she  was  in  reality  nearly  starved. 

"Now,"  said  the  Persian  princess,  when  she 
had  finished,  "  you  had  better  do  that  mending, 
while  I  finish  cooking  and  eat  my  own  supper." 

Dorothy  obeyed.  By  the  time  the  apron  was 
neatly  mended,  the  princess  had  finished  cooking 
and  eaten  the  pigeon.  "Now,  I  wish  to  talk  a 
little  to  you,"  said  she.  "  I  feel  as  if  you  deserved 
my  confidence  since  you  have  penetrated  my  dis- 


94  THE   LITTLE   PERSIAN   PKINCESS 

guise.  I  am  a  Persian  princess,  as  I  said  before, 
and  I  am  travelling  incognita  to  see  the  world 
and  improve  my  mind,  and  also  to  rescue  my 
brother,  who  is  a  Maltese  prince  and  enchanted. 
My  brother,  when  very  young,  went  on  his  trav 
els,  was  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of  Malta,  and 
became  a  prince  of  that  island.  But  he  had 
enemies,  and  was  enchanted.  He  is  now  a  Maltese 
cat.  I  disguise  myself  as  a  cat  in  order  to  find 
him  more  readily.  Now,  for  what  do  you  most 
wish?" 

Dorothy  courtesied;  she  was  really  too  im 
pressed  to  speak. 

"  Answer,"  said  the  princess,  imperiously. 

"I — want,"  stammered  Dorothy,  uto  —  take 
my  grandmother  out  of — the  almshouse,  and  have 
her  sit  at  the  window  in  the  sun  in  a  cushioned 
chair  and  knit  a  silk  stocking  all  day." 

"  Anything  else  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to — have  her  wear  a  bombazine 
gown  and  a — white  lace  cap  with — lilac  ribbons." 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,"  said  the  princess. 
"  JSTow,  listen.  I  see  that  you  are  not  very  pleas 
antly  situated  here,  and  I  will  teach  you  a  way 
to  escape.  Take  your  hood  off  that  peg  over 
there,  and  come  out  with  me.  I  want  to  find 
my  portmanteau  that  I  left  under  the  hedge,  a 
little  way  down  the  road." 


THE   LITTLE   PERSIAN   PRINCESS  95 

Dorothy  put  on  her  hood  and  followed  the 
princess  down  the  road.  The  little  girl  could 
scarcely  keep  up  with  her ;  she  seemed  to  fairly 
fly  through  the  moonlight,  trailing  her  gray  robe 
after  her. 

"  Here  is  my  portmanteau,"  said  the  princess, 
when  they  had  reached  the  hedge.  The  hedge 
was  all  white  hawthorn  and  very  sweet.  The 
portmanteau  had  lain  well  under  it.  All  Doro 
thy  could  see  was  a  tiny  leather  wallet,  that  a 
cat  could  carry  in  her  mouth.  But  the  princess 
blew  upon  it  three  times,  and  suddenly  a  great 
leather  trunk  stood  on  the  grass.  The  princess 
opened  it,  and  Dorothy  gave  a  little  cry,  her 
eyes  were  so  dazzled.  It  was  like  a  blaze  of  gold 
and  silver  and  jewels.  "  Look  at  this,"  said  the 
princess.  And  she  took  out  of  the  trunk  the 
splendid  robe  that  was  laid  uppermost. 

Dorothy  looked ;  she  could  not  say  anything. 
The  robe  was  woven  of  silk,  with  gold  and  silver 
threads,  and  embroidered  with  jewels. 

"  If  you  will  give  this  to  Dame  Betsy  for  her 
eldest  daughter's  bridal  dress,  she  will  let  you 
go,"  said  the  princess.  She  took  a  pair  of  silver 
shears  out  of  the  trunk  and  cut  off  a  bit  of  the 
robe  under  a  flounce.  "  Show  that  to  Dame 
Betsy,"  said  the  princess,  "  and  tell  her  you  will 
give  her  the  dress  made  of  the  same  material, 


96  THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN   PRINCESS 

and  she  will  let  you  go.  Now  you  had  better 
run  home.  I  shall  stay  here  and  sleep  under 
the  hedge.  I  do  not  like  Dame  Betsy's  house. 
Come  here  in  the  morning,  when  you  have  told 
her  about  the  dress." 

The  princess  sat  down  on  the  trunk,  and  it 
immediately  shrunk  into  the  little  wallet ;  then 
she  curled  herself  up  on  the  grass  under  the 
flowery  hedge.  Dorothy  ran  home  and  crept 
noiselessly  up  to  her  bed  in  the  garret. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  daughters  came  down 
to  breakfast,  they  missed  the  cat.  "  Where  is 
the  cat?"  they  inquired  indignantly  of  their 
mother.  They  suspected  her  of  driving  the  cat 
away  with  the  broom.  They  had  quite  a  wran 
gle  over  it.  Finally,  the  daughters  all  put  on 
finery  and  went  out  shopping  for  some  needles 
and  pins ;  then  Dorothy  showed  Dame  Betsy  the 
scrap  of  the  splendid  robe,  and  said  to  her  what 
the  princess  had  directed  she  should  say. 

Dame  Betsy  was  very  much  surprised  and  dis 
turbed.  She  did  not  wish  to  lose  Dorothy,  who 
was  a  great  help  to  her ;  still,  she  had  no  doubt 
that  a  suitor  would  soon  appear  for  her  eldest 
daughter,  if  arrayed  in  so  beautiful  a  bridal  gown 
as  that.  She  reflected  how  she  might  have  a 
tea-party  and  invite  all  the  neighbors,  and  dis 
play  the  robe,  and  how  all  the  sons  would  come. 


THE   LITTLE   PERSIAN    PKINCESS  97 

flocking  to  the  door.  Finally  she  consented,  and 
Dorothy,  as  soon  as  her  mistress's  back  was 
turned,  ran  out  and  away  to  the  hedge,  under 
which  she  knew  the  Persian  princess  to  be  con 
cealed. 

The  princess  looked  up  and  rubbed  her  eyes. 
She  had  slept  late,  although  the  birds  were  sing 
ing  loudly  all  around  her.  Dorothy  courtesied 
and  said  that  she  had  come  for  the  robe.  "  Yery 
well,"  replied  the  princess,  "  I  will  give  it  to  you ; 
then  you  must  carry  it  and  hang  it  over  Dame 
Betsy's  gate,  and  run  back  to  me  as  fast  as  you 
are  able." 

Then  the  princess  blew  on  the  wallet  until  it 
became  a  trunk,  and  she  took  out  the  splendid 
robe  and  gave  it  to  Dorothy,  who  carried  it  and 
hung  it  over  Dame  Betsy's  gate  just  as  she  had 
been  bidden.  But  as  she  was  about  to  run  away, 
she  saw  the  little  boy  who  lived  next  door  peep 
ing  through  his  fence,  so  she  stopped  to  bid  him 
good-bye.  He  felt  so  sad  that  he  wept,  and 
Dorothy  herself  had  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she 
ran  to  join  the  princess. 

Dorothy  and  the  princess  then  set  off  on  their 
travels ;  but  nobody  except  Dorothy  herself  knew 
that  there  was  a  princess.  Every  one  who  met 
them  saw  simply  a  little  girl  and  a  beautiful 
gray  cat.  Finally  they  stopped  at  a  pretty  little 


THE    LITTLE   PEESIAN   PEINCESS 

village.  "Here,"  said  the  princess,  "  we  will  rent 
a  cottage." 

They  looked  about  until  they  found  a  charm 
ing  cottage  with  a  grape-vine  over  the  door,  and 
roses  and  marigolds  in  the  yard ;  then  Dorothy, 
at  the  princess's  direction,  went  to  the  landlord 
and  bargained  for  it. 

Then  they  went  to  live  in  the  cottage,  and  the 
princess  taught  Dorothy  how  to  make  lovely 
tidies  and  cushions  and  aprons  out  of  the  beauti 
ful  dresses  in  her  trunk.  She  had  a  great  store 
of  them,  but  they  were  all  made  in  the  Persian 
fashion  and  were  of  no  use  in  this  country. 

When  Dorothy  had  made  the  pretty  articles 
out  of  the  rich  dresses,  she  went  out  and  sold 
them  to  wealthy  ladies  for  high  prices.  She  soon 
earned  quite  a  sum  of  money,  which  she  placed 
at  interest  in  the  bank,  and  she  was  then  able  to 
take  her  grandmother  out  of  the  almshouse.  She 
bought  a  beautiful  chair  with  a  canary-colored 
velvet  cushion,  and  she  placed  it  at  the  window 
in  the  sun.  She  bought  a  bombazine  dress  and 
a  white  cap  with  lilac  ribbons,  and  she  had  the 
silk  stocking  with  the  needles  all  ready. 

But  the  day  before  the  old  grandmother  came 
the  princess  bade  Dorothy  good-bye.  "  I  am  go 
ing  out  again  on  my  travels,"  said  she ;  "  I  wish 
to  see  more  of  the  country,  and  I  must  con- 


THE    LITTLE   PEKSIAN   PRINCESS  99 

tinue  my  search  for  my  brother,  the  Maltese 
prince." 

So  the  princess  kissed  Dorothy,  who  wept ; 
then  she  set  forth  on  her  travels.  Dorothy  gazed 
sorrowfully  after  her  as  she  went.  She  saw  a 
dainty  little  princess,  trailing  her  gray  velvets ; 
but  everybody  else  saw  only  a  lovely  gray  cat 
hurrying  down  the  road. 

Dorothy's  grandmother  came  to  live  with  her. 
She  sat  in  her  cushioned  chair,  in  the  sunny 
window  and  knitted  her  silk  stocking,  and  was 
a  very  happy  old  woman.  Dorothy  continued  to 
make  beautiful  things  out  of  the  princess's  dress 
es.  It  seemed  as  if  there  would  never  be  any  end 
to  them.  She  had  cut  up  many  dresses,  but  there 
were  apparently  as  many  now  as  when  she  be 
gan.  She  saw  no  more  of  the  princess,  although 
she  thought  of  her  daily,  until  she  was  quite 
grown  up  and  was  a  beautiful  maiden  with  many 
suitors.  Then,  one  day,  she  went  to  the  city  to 
deliver  a  beautiful  cushion  that  she  had  made  for 
some  wealthy  ladies,  and  there,  in  the  drawing- 
room,  she  saw  the  Persian  princess. 

Dorothy  was  left  in  the  room  until  the  ladies 
came  down,  and  as  she  sat  there  holding  her 
cushion,  she  heard  a  little  velvet  rustle  and  a 
softly-hummed  song  in  the  Persian  language. 
She  looked,  and  there  was  the  princess  step- 


100  THE   LITTLE   PEKSIAN   PRINCESS 

ping  across  the  floor,  trailing  her  gray  vel 
vets. 

"  So  you  have  come,  dear  Dorothy,"  said  the 
princess. 

Dorothy  arose  and  courtesied,  but  the  princess 
came  close  and  kissed  her.  "What  have  you 
there  ?"  she  inquired. 

Dorothy  displayed  the  cushion ;  the  princess 
laughed. 

"  It  is  quite  a  joke,  is  it  not  ?"  said  she.  "  That 
cushion  is  for  me  to  sleep  on,  and  it  is  made 
out  of  one  of  my  own  dresses.  The  ladies  have 
bought  it  for  me.  I  have  heard  them  talking 
about  it.  How  do  you  fare,  Dorothy,  and  how 
is  your  grandmother  ?" 

Then  Dorothy  told  the  princess  how  the  grand 
mother  sat  in  the  cushioned  chair  in  the  sunny 
window  and  knitted  the  silk  stocking,  and  how 
she  herself  was  to  be  married  the  next  week  to 
the  little  boy  who  had  lived  next  door,  but  was 
now  grown  up  and  come  a-wooing. 

"Where  is  his  grandmother?"  asked  the 
princess. 

Dorothy  replied  that  she  was  to  live  with  them, 
and  that  there  was  already  another  cushioned 
chair  in  a  sunny  window,  another  bombazine 
dress  and  lace  cap,  and  a  silk  stocking,  in  read 
iness,  and  that  both  grandmothers  were  to 


THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN    PRINCESS  101 

sit  and  knit  in  peace  during  the  rest  of  their 
lives. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  princess,  with  a  sigh,  "if 
I  were  only  back  in  Persia  I  would  buy  you  a 
wedding  present,  but  I  do  not  know  when  that 
will  be— the  ladies  are  so  kind." 

Dorothy  ventured  to  inquire  if  the  princess 
had  found  her  brother,  the  Maltese  prince. 

"  Dear  me,  yes,"  replied  the  princess.  "  Why, 
he  lives  in  this  very  house.  He  is  out  in  the 
back  parlor  asleep  on  the  sofa,  this  minute. 
Brother,  dear  brother,  come  here  a  second,  I 
pray !" 

With  that  a  Maltese  prince,  with  a  long,  aris 
tocratic  face,  and  beautiful,  serious  eyes,  entered 
with  a  slow  and  stately  tread.  He  was  dressed 
in  gray  velvet,  like  his  sister,  and  he  wore  white 
velvet  mittens.  Dorothy  courtesied  very  low. 

"  Yes,  I  found  my  brother  here,  some  time 
ago,"  said  the  princess ;  "  but  I  have  very  little 
hope  of  freeing  him  from  his  enchantment.  You 
see,  there  is  only  one  thing  that  can  break  the 
spell :  one  of  his  mistresses  must  drive  him  out 
of  the  house  with  the  broom,  and  I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  either  of  them  ever  will — they  are  so 
exceedingly  gracious  and  kind.  I  have  tried  to 
induce  my  brother  to  commit  some  little  sin — to 
steal  some  cream  or  some  meat,  or  to  fly  around 


102  THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN    PKINCESS 

the  room  as  if  he  were  in  a  fit  (I  myself  have 
shown  him  how  to  do  that),  but  he  will  not  con 
sent.  He  has  too  much  dignity,  and  he  is  too 
fond  of  these  ladies.  And,  if  he  should,  I  doubt 
if  he  would  be  driven  out  with  the  broom — they 
are  so  kind." 

The  princess  sighed.  The  prince  stood  look 
ing  in  a  grave  and  stately  manner  at  Dorothy, 
but  he  did  not  speak.  "  However,"  the  princess 
continued,  cheerfully,  "  we  do  very  well  here,  and 
in  some  respects  this  is  a  more  enlightened  coun 
try  than  either  Persia  or  Malta,  and  it  is  a  privi 
lege  to  live  here.  The  ladies  are  very  kind  to 
us,  and  we  are  very  fond  of  them ;  then,  too,  we 
see  very  fine  company.  And  there  are  also  Per 
sian  hangings  and  rugs  which  make  it  seem 
home-like.  We  are  very  well  contented.  I  don't 
know,  on  the  whole,  that  we  are  in  any  hurry  to 
go  away.  But  should  either  of  the  ladies  ever 
take  it  into  her  head  to  drive  my  brother  out  of 
the  house  with  the  broom,  we  shall  at  once  leave 
the  country  for  Persia  and  Malta ;  for,  after  all, 
one's  native  land  is  dear." 

The  princess  stopped  talking,  and  began  to 
hum  her  Persian  song,  and  then  the  ladies  en 
tered  the  room.  They  greeted  Dorothy  kindly ; 
then  they  began  to  call,  "  Yashti,  Yashti,  come 
here,  pretty  Yashti,"  and,  "Muff,  Muff,  come 


THE    LITTLE   PERSIAN    PRINCESS  103 

here,  pretty  Muff."  For  they  did  not  see  the 
Persian  princess  and  the  Maltese  prince,  but  two 
beautiful  cats,  whose  names  were  Yashti  and  Muff. 

"  Just  hear  Yashti  purr,"  said  one  of  the  ladies. 
"  Come  here,  pretty  Yashti,  and  try  your  new 
cushion." 

And  the  ladies  saw  a  cat  sitting  on  the  rich 
cushion,  and  another  cat  looking  at  her  gravely, 
while  Dorothy  saw  a  Persian  princess  and  a 
Maltese  prince. 

However,  the  ladies  knew  that  there  was 
something  uncommon  about  their  cats,  and  they 
sometimes  suspected  the  truth  themselves,  but 
they  thought  it  must  be  a  fancy. 

Dorothy  left  her  cushion  and  went  away,  and 
that  was  the  last  time  she  ever  saw  the  Persian 
princess.  As  she  went  out  the  door  the  princess 
pressed  close  to  her.  The  ladies  thought  she 
mewed,  but  in  reality  she  was  talking. 

"  Good-bye,  Dorothy,"  said  she,  "  I  hope  you 
will  live  happily  ever  after.  And  as  for  my 
brother  and  I,  we  really  enjoy  ourselves ;  we  are 
seeing  the  country  and  improving  our  minds,  and 
we  love  the  ladies.  If  one  of  them  should  drive 
him  out  with  the  broom,  he  will  become  a  prince 
again,  and  we  shall  leave ;  but  I  do  not  know 
that  it  is  desirable.  A  cat  has  a  more  peaceful 
life  than  a  prince.  Good-bye,  dear  Dorothy." 


104  THE    LITTLE    PERSIAN    PRINCESS 

The  princess  was  going  closer  to  embrace 
Dorothy,  but  the  ladies  became  alarmed ;  they 
thought  that  their  beautiful  cat  was  going  to 
steal  out  of  the  house.  So  they  called,  and  a 
maid  with  a  white  cap  ran  and  caught  the  Per 
sian  princess,  and  carried  her  back  to  the  draw 
ing-room.  The  ladies  thought  she  mewed  as  she 
was  being  carried  in,  but  in  reality  she  was  call 
ing  back  merrily,  "  Good-bye,  and  live  happily 
ever  after,  dear  Dorothy!" 


WHERE  THE  CHRISTMAS -TEEE 
GREW 


IT  was  afternoon  recess  at  No.  4  District 
School,  in  Warner.  There  was  a  heavy  snow 
storm;  so  every  one  was  in  the  warm  school 
room,  except  a  few  adventurous  spirits  who  were 
tumbling  about  in  the  snow-drifts  out  in  the 
yard,  getting  their  clothes  wet  and  preparing 
themselves  for  chidings  at  home.  Their  shrill 
cries  and  shouts  of  laughter  floated  into  the 
school-room,  but  the  small  group  .near  the  stove 
did  not  heed  them  at  all.  There  were  five  or  six 
little  girls  and  one  boy.  The  girls,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  Jenny  Brown,  were  trim  and  sweet 
in  their  winter  dresses  and  neat  school -aprons ; 
they  perched  on  the  desks  and  the  arms  of  the 
settee  with  careless  grace,  like  birds.  Some  of 
them  had  their  arms  linked.  The  one  boy  lounged 
against  the  blackboard.  His  dark,  straight-pro 
filed  face  was  all  aglow  as  he  talked.  His  big 


106  WHEEE   THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE    GREW 

brown  eyes  gazed  now  soberly  and  impressively 
at  Jenny,  then  gave  a  gay  dance  in  the  direction 
of  the  other  girls. 

"  Yes,  it  does — honest !  "  said  he. 

The  other  girls  nudged  one  another  softly ; 
but  Jenny  Brown  stood  with  her  innocent,  sol 
emn  eyes  fixed  upon  Earl  Munroe's  face,  drink 
ing  in  every  word. 

"You  ask  anybody  who  knows,"  continued 
Earl ;  "  ask  Judge  Barker,  ask — the  minister — " 

"  Oh !"  cried  the  little  girls ;  but  the  boy  shook 
his  head  impatiently  at  them. 

"  Yes,"  said  he ;  "  you  just  go  and  ask  Mr. 
Fisher  to-morrow,  and  you'll  see  what  he'll  tell 
you.  Why,  look  here  " — Earl  straightened  him 
self  and  stretched  out  an  arm  like  an  orator — 
it's  nothing  more  than  reasonable  that  Christmas- 
trees  grow  wild  with  the  presents  all  on  'em ! 
"What  sense  would  there  be  in  'em  if  they  didn't, 
I'd  like  to  know  ?  They  grow  in  different  places, 
of  course;  but  these  around  here  grow  mostly 
on  the  mountain  over  there.  They  come  up 
every  spring,  and  they  all  blossom  out  about 
Christmas -time,  and  folks  go  hunting  for  them 
to  give  to  the  children.  Father  and  Ben  are 
over  on  the  mountain  to-day — " 

"  Oh,  oh !"  cried  the  little  girls. 

"  I  mean,  I  guess  they  are,"  amended  Earl, 


WHERE    THE    CHRISTMAS- THE E    GREW  107 

trying  to  put  his  feet  on  the  boundary  -  line  of 
truth.  "  I  hope  they'll  find  a  full  one." 

Jenny  Brown  had  a  little,  round,  simple  face ; 
her  thin  brown  hair  was  combed  back  and  braided 
tightly  in  one  tiny  braid  tied  with  a  bit  of  shoe 
string.  She  wore  a  nondescript  gown,  which 
nearly  trailed  behind,  and  showed  in  front  her 
little,  coarsely-shod  feet,  which  toed-in  helplessly. 
The  gown  was  of  a  faded  green  color;  it  was 
scalloped  and  bound  around  the  bottom,  and  had 
some  green  ribbon -bows  down  the  front.  It 
was,  in  fact,  the  discarded  polonaise  of  a  benevo 
lent  woman,  who  aided  the  poor  substantially 
but  not  tastefully. 

Jenny  Brown  was  eight,  and  small  for  her  age 
— a  strange,  gentle,  ignorant  little  creature,  never 
doubting  the  truth  of  what  she  was  told,  which 
sorely  tempted  the  other  children  to  impose  upon 
her.  Standing  there  in  the  school -room  that 
stormy  recess,  in  the  midst  of  that  group  of 
wiser,  richer,  mostly  older  girls,  and  that  one 
handsome,  mischievous  boy,  she  believed  every 
word  she  heard. 

This  was  her  first  term  at  school,  and  she  had 
never  before  seen  much  of  other  children.  She 
had  lived  her  eight  years  all  alone  at  home  with 
her  mother,  and  she  had  never  been  told  about 
Christmas.  Her  mother  had  other  things  to 


108  WHERE    THE    CHRISTMAS-TREE    GREW 

think  about.  She  was  a  dull,  spiritless,  reticent 
woman,  who  had  lived  through  much  trouble. 
She  worked,  doing  washings  and  cleanings,  like 
a  poor  feeble  machine  that  still  moves  but  has 
no  interest  in  its  motion.  Sometimes  the  Browns 
had  almost  enough  to  eat,  at  other  times  they 
half  starved.  It  was  half -starving  time  just  then ; 
Jenny  had  not  had  enough  to  eat  that  day. 

There  was  a  pinched  look  on  the  little  face  up 
turned  towards  Earl  Munroe's. 

EarPs  words  gained  authority  by  coming  from 
himself.  Jenny  had  always  regarded  him  with 
awe  and  admiration.  It  was  much  that  he  should 
speak  at  all  to  her. 

Earl  Munroe  was  quite  the  king  of  this  little 
district  school.  He  was  the  son  of  the  wealthiest 
man  in  town.  No  other  boy  was  so  well  dressed, 
so  gently  bred,  so  luxuriously  lodged  and  fed. 
Earl  himself  realized  his  importance,  and  had  at 
times  the  loftiness  of  a  young  prince  in  his  man 
ner.  Occasionally,  some  independent  urchin 
would  bristle  with  democratic  spirit,  and  tell  him 
to  his  face  that  he  was  "  stuck  up,"  and  that  he 
hadn't  so  much  more  to  be  proud  of  than  other 
folks  ;  that  his  grandfather  wasn't  anything  but 
an  old  ragman ! 

Then  Earl  would  wilt.  Arrogance  in  a  free 
country  is  likely  to  have  an  unstable  foundation. 


WHERE   THE    CHRISTMAS  -  TKEE    GREW  100 

Earl  tottered  at  the  mention  of  his  paternal 
grandfather,  who  had  given  the  first  impetus  to 
the  family  fortune  by  driving  a  tin-cart  about 
the  country.  Moreover,  the  boy  was  really  pleas 
ant  and  generous  hearted,  and  had  no  mind,  in 
the  long  run,  for  lonely  state  and  disagreeable 
haughtiness.  He  enjoyed  being  lordly  once  in  a 
while,  that  was  all. 

He  did  now,  with  Jenny — he  eyed  her  with 
a  gay  condescension,  which  would  have  greatly 
amused  his  tin-peddler  grandfather. 

Soon  the  bell  rung,  and  they  all  filed  to  their 
seats,  and  the  lessons  were  begun. 

After  school  was  done  that  night,  Earl  stood 
in  the  door  when  Jenny  passed  out. 

"  Say,  Jenny,"  he  called,  "  when  are  you  going 
over  on  the  mountain  to  find  the  Christmas- 
tree  ?  You'd  better  go  pretty  soon,  or  they'll  be 
gone." 

"  That's  so !"  chimed  in  one  of  the  girls. 
"  You'd  better  go  right  off,  Jenny." 

She  passed  along,  her  face  shyly  dimpling  with 
her  little  innocent  smile,  and  said  nothing.  She 
would  never  talk  much. 

She  had  quite  a  long  walk  to  her  home.  Pres 
ently,  as  she  was  pushing  weakly  through  the 
new  snow,  Earl  went  flying  past  her  in  his 
father's  sleigh,  with  the  black  horses  and  the  fur- 


110  WHERE   THE    CHRISTMAS  -  TKEE   GREW 

capped  coachman.  He  never  thought  of  asking 
her  to  ride.  If  he  had,  he  would  not  have  hesi 
tated  a  second  before  doing  so. 

Jenny,  as  she  waded  along,  could  see  the 
mountain  always  before  her.  This  road  led 
straight  to  it,  then  turned  and  wound  around  its 
base.  It  had  stopped  snowing,  and  the  sun  was 
setting  clear.  The  great  white  mountain  was  all 
rosy.  It  stood  opposite  the  red  western  sky. 
Jenny  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  mountain. 
Down  in  the  valley  shadows  her  little  simple 
face,  pale  and  colorless,  gathered  another  kind 
of  radiance. 

There  was  no  school  the  next  day,  which  was 
the  one  before  Christmas.  It  was  pleasant,  and 
not  very  cold.  Everybody  was  out;  the  little 
village  stores  were  crowded ;  sleds  trailing  Christ 
mas-greens  went  flying;  people  were  hastening 
with  parcels  under  their  arms,  their  hands  full. 

Jenny  Brown  also  was  out.  She  was  climbing 
Franklin  Mountain.  The  snowy  pine  boughs 
bent  so  low  that  they  brushed  her  head.  She 
stepped  deeply  into  the  untrodden  snow ;  the 
train  of  her  green  polonaise  dipped  into  it,  and 
swept  it  along.  And  all  the  time  she  was  peer 
ing  through  those  white  fairy  columns  and  arches 
for — a  Christmas-tree. 

That  night,  the  mountain  had  turned  rosy,  and 


WHERE    THE    CHRISTMAS  -  TREE    GREW  111 

faded,  and  the  stars  were  coming  out,  when  a 
frantic  woman,  panting,  crying  out  now  and  then 
in  her  distress,  went  running  down  the  road  to 
the  Munroe  house.  It  was  the  only  one  between 
her  own  and  the  mountain.  The  woman  rained 
some  clattering  knocks  on  the  door — she  could 
not  stop  for  the  bell.  Then  she  burst  into  the 
house,  and  threw  open  the  dining-room  door, 
crying  out  in  gasps : 

"  Hev  you  seen  her  ?  Oh,  hev  you  ?  My  Jen 
ny's  lost !  She's  lost !  Oh,  oh,  oh !  They  said 
they  saw  her  comin'  up  this  way,  this  mornin'. 
Hev  you  seen  her,  hev  you  3" 

Earl  and  his  father  and  mother  were  having 
tea  there  in  the  handsome  oak-panelled  dining- 
room.  Mr.  Munroe  rose  at  once,  and  went  for 
ward,  Mrs.  Munroe  looked  with  a  pale  face 
around  her  silver  tea-urn,  and  Earl  sat  as  if 
frozen.  He  heard  his  father's  soothing  ques 
tions,  and  the  mother's  answers.  She  had  been 
out  at  work  all  day ;  when  she  returned,  Jenny 
was  gone.  Some  one  had  seen  her  going  up  the 
road  to  the  Munroes'  that  morning  about  ten 
o'clock.  That  was  her  only  clew. 

Earl  sat  there,  and  saw  his  mother  draw  the 
poor  woman  into  the  room  and  try  to  comfort 
her ;  he  heard,  with  a  vague  understanding,  his 
father  order  the  horses  to  be  harnessed  immedi- 


112  WHERE    THE   CHRISTMAS  -  TREE   GREW 

ately;  he  watched  him  putting  on  his  coat  and 
hat  out  in  the  hall. 

When  he  heard  the  horses  trot  up  the  drive, 
he  sprang  to  his  feet.  When  Mr.  Munroe  opened 
the  door,  Earl,  with  his  coat  and  cap  on,  was  at 
his  heels. 

"Why,  you  can't  go,  Earl!"  said  his  father, 
when  he  saw  him.  "  Go  back  at  once." 

Earl  was  white  and  trembling.  He  half 
sobbed:  "  Oh,  father,  I  must  go  !"  said  he. 

"  Earl,  be  reasonable.  You  want  to  help,  don't 
you,  and  not  hinder  ?"  his  mother  called  out  of 
the  dining-room. 

Earl  caught  hold  of  his  father's  coat.  "  Father 
— look  here — I — I  believe  I  know  where  she  is!" 

Then  his  father  faced  sharply  around,  his 
mother  and  Jenny's  stood  listening  in  bewilder 
ment,  and  Earl  told  his  ridiculous,  childish,  and 
cruel  little  story.  "I — didn't  dream  —  she'd 
really  be — such  a  little — goose  as  to — go,"  he 
choked  out;  "but  she  must  have,  for" — with 
brave  candor — "  I  know  she  believed  every  word 
I  told  her." 

It  seemed  a  fantastic  theory,  yet  a  likely  one. 
It  would  give  method  to  the  search,  yet  more 
alarm  to  the  searchers.  The  mountain  was  a 
wide  region  in  which  to  find  one  little  child. 

Jenny's  mother  screamed  out,  "Oh,  if  she's 


WHERE    THE    CHRISTMAS  -  TREE    GREW  115 

lost  on  the  mountain,  they'll  never  find  her! 
They  never  will,  they  never  will !  Oh,  Jenny, 
Jenny,  Jenny !" 

Earl  gave  a  despairing  glance  at  her,  and  bolt 
ed  up-stairs  to  his  own  room.  His  mother  called 
pityingly  after  him;  but  he  only  sobbed  back, 
"  Don't,  mother— please  !"  and  kept  on. 

The  boy,  lying  face  downward  on  his  bed,  cry 
ing  as  if  his  heart  would  break,  heard  presently 
the  church-bell  clang  out  fast  and  furious.  Then 
he  heard  loud  voices  down  in  the  road,  and  the 
flurry  of  sleigh-bells.  His  father  had  raised  the 
alarm,  and  the  search  was  organized. 

After  a  while  Earl  arose,  and  crept  over  to  the 
window.  It  looked  towards  the  mountain,  which 
towered  up,  cold  and  white  arid  relentless,  like 
one  of  the  ice-hearted  giants  of  the  old  Indian 
tales.  Earl  shuddered  as  he  looked  at  it.  Pres 
ently  he  crawled  down-stairs  and  into  the  parlor. 
In  the  bay-window  stood,  like  a  gay  mockery, 
the  Christmas-tree.  It  was  a  quite  small  one 
that  year,  only  for  the  family — some  expected 
guests  had  failed  to  come — but  it  was  well  laden. 
After  tea  the  presents  were  to  have  been  dis 
tributed.  There  were  some  for  his  father  and 
mother,  and  some  for  the  servants,  but  the  bulk 
of  them  were  for  Earl. 

By- and -by  his  mother,  who  had  heard  him 


116  WHERE   THE    CHRISTMAS-TREE    GREW 

come  down-stairs,  peeped  into  the  room,  and  saw 
him  busily  taking  his  presents  from  the  tree. 
Her  heart  sank  with  sad  displeasure  and  amaze 
ment.  She  would  not  have  believed  that  her  boy 
could  be  so  utterly  selfish  as  to  think  of  Christ 
mas-presents  then. 

But  she  said  nothing.  She  stole  away,  and 
returned  to  poor  Mrs.  Brown,  whom  she  was  keep 
ing  with  her ;  still  she  continued  to  think  of  it 
all  that  long,  terrible  night,  when  they  sat  there 
waiting,  listening  to  the  signal-horns  over  on  the 
mountain. 

Morning  came  at  last  and  Mr.  Munroe  with  it. 
No  success  so  far.  He  drank  some  coffee  and 
was  off  again.  That  was  quite  early.  An  hour 
or  two  later  the  breakfast- bell  rang.  Earl  did 
not  respond  to  it,  so  his  mother  went  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  and  called  him.  There  was  a  stern 
ring  in  her  soft  voice.  All  the  time  she  had  in 
mind  his  heartlessness  and  greediness  over  the 
presents.  When  Earl  did  not  answer  she  went 
up-stairs,  and  found  that  he  was  not  in  his  room. 
Then  she  looked  in  the  parlor,  and  stood  staring 
in  bewilderment.  Earl  was  not  there,  but  neither 
were  the  Christmas-tree  and  his  presents — they 
had  vanished  bodily ! 

Just  at  that  moment  Earl  Munroe  was  hurry 
ing  down  the  road,  and  he  was  dragging  his  big 


WHERE   THE    CHRISTMAS -TREE    GREW  117 

sled,  on  which  were  loaded  his  Christmas-pres 
ents  and  the  Christmas-tree.  The  top  of  the  tree 
trailed  in  the  snow,  its  branches  spread  over  the 
sled  on  either  side,  and  rustled.  It  was  a  heavy 
load,  but  Earl  tugged  manfully  in  an  enthusiasm 
of  remorse  and  atonement — a  fantastic,  extrav 
agant  atonement,  planned  by  that  same  fertile 
fancy  which  had  invented  that  story  for  poor 
little  Jenny,  but  instigated  by  all  the  good,  re 
pentant  impulses  in  the  boy's  nature. 

On  every  one  of  those  neat  parcels,  above  his 
own  name,  was  written  in  his  big  crooked,  child 
ish  hand,  "  Jenny  Brown,  from — "  Earl  Munroe 
had  not  saved  one  Christmas-present  for  himself. 

Pulling  along,  his  eyes  brilliant,  his  cheeks 
glowing,  he  met  Maud  Barker.  She  was  Judge 
Barker's  daughter,  and  the  girl  who  had  joined 
him  in  advising  Jenny  to  hunt  on  the  mountain 
for  the  Christmas-tree. 

Maud  stepped  along,  placing  her  trim  little 
feet  with  dainty  precision ;  she  wore  some  new 
high-buttoned  overshoes.  She  also  carried  a  new 
beaver  muff,  but  in  one  hand  only.  The  other 
dangled  mittenless  at  her  side ;  it  was  pink  with 
cold,  but  on  its  third  finger  sparkled  a  new  gold 
ring  with  a  blue  stone  in  it. 

"Oh,  Earl !"  she  called  out,  "have  they  found 
Jenny  Brown?  I  was  going  up  to  your  house 


118  WHERE    THE    CHRISTMAS-TREE    GREW 

to — Why,  Earl  Munroe,  what  have  you  got 
there  ?" 

"I'm  carrying  up  my  Cristmas-presents and  the 
tree  up  to  Jenny's — so  she'll  find  'em  when  she 
comes  back,"  said  the  boy,  flushing  red.  There 
was  a  little  defiant  choke  in  his  voice. 

"Why,  what  for?" 

"  I  rather  think  they  belong  to  her  more'n 
they  do  to  me,  after  what's  happened." 

"  Does  your  mother  know  ?" 

"  No  ;  she  wouldn't  care.  She'd  think  I  was 
only  doing  what  I  ought." 

"All  of  'em?"  queried  Maud,  feebly. 

"  You  don't  s'pose  I'd  keep  any  back  ?" 

Maud  stood  staring.  It  was  beyond  her  little 
philosophy. 

Earl  was  passing  on  when  a  thought  struck 
him. 

"  Say,  Maud,"  he  cried,  eagerly,  "haven't  you 
something  you  can  put  in  ?  Girls'  things  might 
please  her  better,  you  know.  Some  of  mine  are 
— rather  queer,  I'm  afraid." 

"  What  have  you  got  ?"  demanded  Maud. 

"  Well,  some  of  the  things  are  well  enough. 
There's  a  lot  of  candy  and  oranges  and  figs  and 
books ;  there's  one  by  Jules  Yerne  I  guess  she'll 
like ;  but  there's  a  great  big  jack-knife,  and — a 
brown  velvet  bicycle  suit  ?" 


WHERE    THE    CHRISTMAS-TREE    GREW  119 

"  Why,  Earl  Munroe !  what  could  she  do  with 
a  bicycle  suit  ?" 

"  I  thought,  maybe,  she  could  rip  the  seams  to 
'em,  an'  sew  'em  some  way,  an'  get  a  basque  cut, 
or  something.  Don't  you  s'pose  she  could?" 
Earl  asked,  anxiously. 

"I  don't  know;  her  mother  could  tell,"  said 
Maud. 

"  Well,  I'll  hang  it  on,  anyhow.  Maud,  haven't 
you  anything  to  give  her  ?" 

« I_don't  know." 

Earl  eyed  her  sharply.  "  Isn't  that  muff  new  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  ring?" 

Maud  nodded.  "  She'd  be  delighted  with  'em. 
Oh,  Maud,  put  'em  in  !" 

Maud  looked  at  him.  Her  pretty  mouth  quiv 
ered  a  little ;  some  tears  twinkled  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  I  don't  believe  my  mother  would  let  me," 
faltered  she.  "  You — come  with  me,  and  I'll  ask 
her." 

"  All  right,"  said  Earl,  with  a  tug  at  his  sled- 
rope. 

He  waited  with  his  load  in  front  of  Maud's 
house  until  she  came  forth  radiant,  lugging  a  big 
basket.  She  had  her  last  winter's  red  cashmere 
dress,  a  hood,  some  mittens,  cake  and  biscuit,  and 
nice  slices  of  cold  meat. 


120  WHERE   THE   CHRISTMAS  -  TREE   GREW 

"  Mother  said  these  would  be  much  more  suitr 
able  for  her,"  said  Maud,  with  a  funny  little  im 
itation  of  her  mother's  manner. 

Over  across  the  street  another  girl  stood  at 
the  gate,  waiting  for  news. 

"Have  they  found  her?"  she  cried.  "Where 
are  you  going  with  all  those  things  ?" 

Somehow,  Earl's  generous,  romantic  impulse 
spread  like  an  epidemic.  This  little  girl  soon 
came  flying  out  with  her  contribution ;  then  there 
were  more — quite  a  little  procession  filed  finally 
down  the  road  to  Jenny  Brown's  house. 

The  terrible  possibilities  of  the  case  never  oc 
curred  to  them.  The  idea  never  entered  their 
heads  that  little,  innocent,  trustful  Jenny  might 
never  come  home  to  see  that  Christmas-tree 
which  they  set  up  in  her  poor  home. 

It  was  with  no  surprise  whatever  that  they 
saw,  about  noon,  Mr.  Munroe's  sleigh,  containing 
Jenny  and  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Munroe,  drive 
up  to  the  door. 

Afterwards  they  heard  how  a  wood-cutter  had 
found  Jenny  crying,  over  on  the  east  side  of  the 
mountain,  at  sunset,  and  had  taken  her  home 
with  him.  He  lived  five  miles  from  the  village, 
and  was  an  old  man,  not  able  to  walk  so  far  that 
night  to  tell  them  of  her  safety.  His  wife  had 
been  very  good  to  the  child.  About  eleven 


WHEKE    THE   CHRISTMAS  -  TREE    GKEW  121 

o'clock  some  of  the  searchers  had  met  the  old 
man  plodding  along  the  mountain-road  with  the 
news. 

They  did  not  stop  for  this  now.  They  shouted 
to  Jenny  to  "  come  in,  quick !"  They  pulled  her 
with  soft  violence  into  the  room  where  they  had 
been  at  work.  Then  the  child  stood  with  her 
hands  clasped,  staring  at  the  Christmas-tree.  All 
too  far  away  had  she  been  searching  for  it.  The 
Christmas-tree  grew  not  on  the  wild  mountain 
side,  in  the  lonely  woods,  but  at  home,  close  to 
warm,  loving  hearts ;  and  that  was  where  she 
found  it. 


WHERE   SARAH  JANE'S   DOLL 
WENT 


IN  the  first  place,  Sarah  Jane  had  no  right  to 
take  the  doll  to  school,  but  the  temptation  was 
too  much  for  her.  The  doll  was  new — it  was, 
in  fact,  only  one  day  old — and  such  a  doll !  Rag, 
of  course — Sarah  Jane  had  heard  only  vague  ru 
mors  of  other  kinds — but  no  more  like  the  ordi 
nary  rag  doll  than  a  fairy  princess  is  like  a  dairy 
maid.  The  minute  that  Sarah  Jane  saw  it  she 
knew  at  once  that  there  never  had  been  such  a 
doll.  It  was  small  —  not  more  than  seven  or 
eight  inches  tall — not  by  any  means  the  usual 
big,  sprawling,  moon -faced  rag  baby  with  its 
arms  standing  out  at  right  angles  with  its  body. 
It  was  tiny  and  genteel  in  figure,  slim-waisted, 
and  straight-backed.  It  was  made  of,  not  com 
mon  cotton  cloth,  but  linen — real  glossy  white 
linen — which  Sarah  Jane's  mother,  and  conse 
quently  the  doll's  grandmother,  had  spun  and 
wove.  Its  face  was  colored  after  a  fashion 


123 


which  was  real  high  art  to  Sarah  Jane.  The 
little  cheeks  and  mouth  were  sparingly  flushed 
with  cranberry  juice,  and  the  eyes  beamed  blue 
with  indigo.  The  nose  was  delicately  traced 
with  a  quill  dipped  in  its  grandfather's  ink-stand, 
and  though  not  quite  as  natural  as  the  rest  of 
the  features,  showed  fine  effort.  Its  little  wig 
was  made  from  the  fine  ravellings  of  Serena's 
brown  silk  stockings. 

Serena  was  Sarah  Jane's  married  sister,  who 
lived  in  the  next  house  across  the  broad  green 
yard,  and  she  had  made  this  wonderful  doll. 
She  brought  it  over  one  evening  just  before 
Sarah  Jane  went  to  bed.  "  There,"  said  she, "  if 
you'll  be  a  real  good  girl  I'll  give  you  this." 

"  Oh !"  cried  Sarah  Jane,  and  she  could  say  no 
more. 

Serena,  who  was  only  a  girl  herself,  dandled 
the  doll  impressively  before  her  bewildered  eyes. 
It  was  dressed  in  a  charming  frock  made  from  a 
bit  of  Serena's  best  French  calico.  The  frock 
was  of  a  pale  lilac  color  with  roses  sprinkled 
over  it,  and  was  cut  with  a  low  neck  and  short 
puffed  sleeves. 

"  Now,  Sarah  Jane,"  said  Serena,  admonishing- 
ly,  "  there's  one  thing  I  want  to  tell  you :  you 
mustn't  carry  this  doll  to  school.  If  you  do, 
you'll  lose  it;  and  if  you  do,  you  won't  get  an- 


124 


other  very  soon.  It  was  a  good  deal  of  work  to 
make  it.  Now  you  mind  what  I  say." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Sarah  Jane.  It  was  not 
her  habit  to  say  ma'am  to  her  sister  Serena,  if 
she  was  twelve  years  older  than  she;  but  she 
did  now,  and  reached  out  impatiently  for  the 
doll. 

"  Well,  you  remember,"  said  Serena.  "  If  you 
take  it  to  school  and  lose  it,  it  '11  be  the  last  doll 
you'll  get." 

And  Sarah  Jane  said,  "  Yes,  ma'am,"  again. 

She  had  to  go  to  bed  directly,  but  she  took 
the  new  doll  with  her ;  that  was  not  forbidden, 
much  to  her  relief.  And  before  she  went  to 
sleep  she  had  named  her  with  a  most  flowery 
name,  nothing  less  than  Lily  Rosalie  Yiolet  May. 
It  took  her  a  long  time  to  decide  upon  it,  but 
she  was  finally  quite  satisfied,  and  went  to  sleep 
hugging  Lily  Eosalie,  and  dreamed  about  her 
next  day's  spelling  lesson — that  she  failed  and 
went  to  the  foot  of  the  class. 

It  was  singular,  but  for  once  a  dream  of  Sarah 
Jane's  came  true.  She  actually  did  miss  in  her 
spelling  lesson  the  next  day ;  and  although  she 
did  not  go  quite  to  the  foot  of  the  class,  she  went 
very  near  to  it.  But  if  Sarah  Jane  was  not  able 
to  spell  scissors  correctly,  she  could  have  spelled 
with  great  success  Lily  Eosalie  Yiolet  May.  All 


125 


the  evening  she  had  been  printing  it  over  and 
over  on  a  fly  -  leaf  of  her  spelling  -  book.  She 
could  feel  no  interest  in  scissors,  which  had  no 
connection,  except  a  past  one,  with  her  beloved 
new  doll. 

Poor  Sarah  Jane  lived  such  a  long  way  from 
school  that  she  had  to  carry  her  dinner  with 
her,  so  there  was  a  whole  day's  separation,  when 
she  had  only  possessed  Lily  Rosalie  for  a  matter 
of  twelve  hours.  It  was  hard. 

She  told  some  of  her  particular  cronies  about 
her,  and  described  her  charms  with  enthusiasm, 
but  it  was  not  quite  equal  to  displaying  her  in 
person. 

The  little  girls  promised  to  come  over  and  see 
the  new  doll  just  as  soon  as  their  mothers  would 
let  them,  and  one,  Ruth  Gurney,  who  was  Sarah 
Jane's  especial  friend,  said  she  would  go  home 
with  her  that  very  night — she  didn't  believe  her 
mother  would  care — but  they  were  going  to  have 
company  at  tea,  and  she  was  afraid  if  she  were 
late,  and  had  to  sit  at  the  second  table,  that  she 
wouldn't  get  any  currant  tarts. 

Sarah  Jane  did  not  urge  her ;  she  had  a  shy 
little  pride  of  her  own ;  but  she  felt  deeply  hurt 
that  Ruth  could  prefer  currant  tarts  to  a  sight 
of  Lily  Rosalie. 

She  was  rather  apt  to  loiter  on  her  way  home. 


126 


There  was  much  temptation  to  at  this  time  of 
the  year,  when  the  meadows  on  either  side  of 
the  road  were  so  brimful  of  grass  and  flowers, 
when  the  air  was  so  sweet,  and  so  many  birds 
were  singing.  There  was  a  brook  on  the  way, 
and  occasionally  Sarah  Jane  used  to  stop  and 
have  a  little  secret  wade.  It  was  one  of  those 
pleasures  which,  although  not  actually  prohibit 
ed,  was  doubtful.  Sarah  Jane  had  at  times  got 
the  hem  of  her  little  blue  calico  gown  draggled, 
and  met  with  a  reprimand  at  home. 

But  to-night  neither  nodding  way-side  flowers 
nor  softly  rippling  brook  had  any  attraction  for 
her.  Straight  home,  her  little  starched  white 
sun -bonnet  pointing  ahead  unswervingly,  her 
small  pattering  feet  never  turning  aside  from 
the  narrow  beaten  track  between  the  way-side 
grasses,  she  went  to  Lily  Kosalie  Yiolet  May. 

She  found  her  just  as  beautiful  as  when  she 
left  her.  That  long  day  of  absence,  filled  in  with 
her  extravagant  childish  fancy,  had  not  caused 
her  charms  to  lessen  in  the  least. 

Sarah  Jane  ran  straight  to  the  linen  chest,  in 
whose  till  she  had  hidden  for  safety  the  precious 
doll,  and  there  she  lay,  her  indigo  blue  eyes  star 
ing  up,  smiling  at  her  with  the  sweet  cranberry- 
colored  smile  which  Serena  had  fixed  on  her 
face,  Sarah  Jane  caught  her  up  in  rapture. 


WHERE    SARAH    JANE  S    DOLL   WENT  127 

Her  mother  told  Serena  that  night  that  she 
didn't  know  when  she'd  seen  the  child  so  tickled 
with  anything  as  she  was  with  that  doll. 

"  She  didn't  carry  it  to  the  school,  did  she  ?" 
said  Serena. 

u  No.  I  guess  she  won't  want  to,  as  long  as 
you  told  her  not  to,"  replied  her  mother. 

Sarah  Jane  had  been  always  an  obedient  little 
girl ;  but — she  had  never  before  had  Lily  Rosa 
lie  Yiolet  May.  Her  mother  did  not  consider 
that. 

Sarah  Jane  did  not  have  a  pocket  made  in  her 
dress ;  it  was  not  then  the  fashion.  Instead,  she 
wore  a  very  large-sized  one,  made  of  stout  cot 
ton,  tied  around  her  waist  by  a  string  under  her 
dress  skirt.  The  next  day,  when  Sarah  Jane 
went  to  school,  she  carried  in  this  pocket  her 
new  doll.  She  was  quite  late  this  morning,  so 
there  was  no  time  to  display  it  before  school 
commenced. 

Once,  when  the  high  arithmetic  class  was  out 
on  the  floor,  she  pulled  it  slyly  out  of  her  pocket, 
held  it  under  her  desk,  and  poked  Ruth  Gurney, 
who  sat  in  the  next  seat. 

"  Oh !"  gasped  Ruth,  almost  aloud.  The  doll 
seemed  to  fascinate  everybody.  "  Let  me  take 
it,"  motioned  Ruth;  but  Sarah  Jane  shook  a 
wise  head,  and  slid  Lily  Rosalie  back  in  her 


128  WHEKE   SARAH   JANE's   DOLL   WENT 

pocket.  She  was  not  going  to  run  the  risk  of 
having  her  confiscated  by  the  teacher.  But 
when  recess  came  Sarah  Jane  was  soon  the 
proud  little  centre  of  an  admiring  group. 

"  Sarah  Jane's  got  the  handsomest  new  doll," 
one  whispered  to  another,  and  they  all  crowded 
around.  Even  some  of  the  abig  girls"  came, 
and  two  or  three  of  the  big  boys.  Sarah  Jane 
was  one  of  the  smallest  girls  in  school,  and  sat  in 
the  very  front  seat.  JSTow  she  felt  like  a  big  girl 
herself.  This  wonderful  doll  raised  her  at  once 
to  a  position  of  importance.  There  she  stood  in 
the  corner  by  the  window,  and  proudly  held  it. 
She  wore  a  blue  cotton  dress  cut  after  the  fashion 
of  Lily  Rosalie's,  with  a  low  neck  and  short 
sleeves,  displaying  her  dimpled  childish  neck  and 
arms.  Her  round  cheeks  were  flushed  with  a 
softer  pink  than  the  doll's,  and  her  honest  brown 
eyes  were  full  of  delight. 

One  and  another  of  the  girls  begged  for  the 
privilege  of  taking  the  doll  a  moment  for  a  closer 
scrutiny,  and  Sarah  Jane  would  grant  it,  and 
then  watch  them  with  thinly  veiled  anxiety. 
Suppose  their  fingers  shouldn't  be  quite  clean, 
and  there  should  be  a  spot  on  Lily  Rosalie's 
beautiful  white  linen  skin!  One  of  the  girls 
rubbed  her  cheeks  to  see  if  the  red  would  come 
off,  and  Sarah  Jane  wriggled. 


WHERE   8ARTH  JANE'S  DOLL  WENT  129 

Joe  West  was  one  of  the  big  boys  who  had 
joined  the  group.  Years  after,  he  was  Joseph 
B.  West,  an  eminent  city  lawyer.  Years  after 
that,  he  was  Judge  West  of  the  Superior  Court. 
Now  he  was  simply  Joe  West,  a  tall,  lanky  boy 
with  a  long  rosy  face  and  a  high  forehead.  His 
arms  came  too  far  through  his  jacket  sleeves, 
and  showed  his  wrists,  which  looked  unnaturally 
knobby  and  bony.  He  went  barefoot  all  sum 
mer  long,  and  was  much  given  to  chewing  sas 
safras. 

He  offered  a  piece  to  Sarah  Jane  now,  extract 
ing  it  with  gravity  from  a  mass  of  chalk,  top 
strings,  buttons,  nails,  and  other  wealth  with 
which  his  pocket  was  filled. 

Sarah  Jane  accepted  it  with  a  modest  little 
blush,  and  plumped  it  into  her  rosy  mouth. 

Then  Joe  West  followed  up  his  advantage. 
"  Say,  Sarah  Jane,5'  said  he,  "  lemme  take  her  a 
minute." 

She  eyed  him  doubtfully.  Somehow  she  mis 
trusted  him.  Joe  West  had  rather  the  reputa 
tion  of  being  a  wag  and  a  sore  tease. 

"  She's  just  the  prettiest  doll  I  ever  saw,"  Joe 
went  on.  "  Lemme  take  her  just  a  minute, 
Sarah  Jane ;  now  do." 

"  He's  just  stuffing  you,  Sarah  Jane ;  don't  you 
let  him  touch  it,"  spoke  out  one  of  the  big  girls. 


130  WHERE    SARAH   JANE'S   DOLL   WENT 

"  Stuffing  "  was  a  very  expressive  word  in  the 
language  of  the  school.  Sarah  Jane  shook  her 
head  with  a  timid  little  smile,  and  hugged  Lily 
Kosalie  tighter. 

"  Now  do,  Sarah  Jane.  I  wouldn't  be  stingy. 
Haven't  I  just  given  you  some  sassafras  ?" 

That  softened  her  a  little.  The  spicy  twang 
of  the  sassafras  was  yet  on  her  tongue.  "  I'm 
afraid  you  won't  give  her  back  to  me,"  mur 
mured  she. 

"  Yes,  I  will,  honest.    Now  do,  Sarah  Jane." 

It  was  against  her  better  judgment ;  the  big 
girl  again  raised  her  warning  voice;  but  Joe 
West  adroitly  administered  a  little  more  flattery, 
and  followed  it  up  with  entreaty,  and  Sarah 
Jane,  yielding,  finally  put  her  precious  little  white 
linen  baby  into  his  big  grimy,  out-reaching  hands. 

"Oh,  the  pretty  little  sing!"  said  Joe  "West 
then,  in  an  absurdly  soft  voice,  and  dandled  it  up 
and  down.  "  What's  its  name,  Sarah  Jane  ?" 

And  Sarah  Jane  in  her  honesty  and  simplicity 
repeated  that  flowery  name. 

"  Lily  Kosalie  Violet  May,"  said  Joe,  after  her, 
softly.  And  everybody  giggled. 

A  pink  color  spread  all  over  Sarah  Jane's  face 
and  dimpled  neck ;  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  She 
felt  as  if  they  were  poking  fun  at  something  sa 
cred;  her  honest  childish  confidence  was  be* 


WHERE   SARAH   JANE'S   DOLL   WENT  133 

trayed.  "  Give  her  back  to  me,  Joe  "West !"  she 
cried. 

But  Joe  only  dandled  it  out  of  her  reach,  and 
then  the  bell  rang.  The  children  trooped  back 
into  the  school-room,  and  Joe  quietly  slipped  the 
doll  into  his  pocket  and  marched  gravely  to  his 
seat. 

Every  time  when  Sarah  Jane  gazed  around  at 
him  he  was  studying  his  geography  with  the 
most  tireless  industry.  She  could  hardly  wait 
for  school  to  be  done  ;  when  it  was,  she  tried  to 
get  to  Joe,  but  he  was  too  quick  for  her.  He  had 
started  with  his  long  stride  down  the  road  before 
she  could  get  to  the  door.  She  called  after  him, 
but  he  appeared  to  have  suddenly  grown  deaf. 
The  other  girls  condoled  with  her,  all  but  the 
big  girl  who  had  given  the  warning.  "You'd 
ought  to  have  listened  to  me,"  said  she,  severely, 
as  she  tied  on  her  sun-bonnet  in  the  entry.  "  I 
told  you  how  it  would  be,  letting  a  boy  have 
hold  of  it." 

Sarah  Jane  was  not  much  comforted.  She 
crept  forlornly  along  towards  home.  Joe  West's 
house  was  on  the  way.  There  was  a  field  south 
of  it.  As  she  came  to  this  field  she  saw  Joe  out 
there  with  the  bossy.  This  bossy,  which  was 
tethered  to  an  old  apple-tree,  was  cream-colored, 
with  a  white  star  on  her  forehead  and  a  neck 


134  WHEEE   SAEAH   JANE's   DOLL  WENT 

and  head  like  a  deer.  She  stood  knee-deep  in 
the  daisies  and  clover,  and  looked  like  a  regular 
picture  -  calf .  If  Sarah  Jane  had  not  been  so 
much  occupied  with  her  own  troubles,  she  would 
have  stopped  to  gaze  with  pleasure  at  the  pretty 
creature. 

Joe  stood  at  her  head  and  appeared  to  be  teas 
ing  her.  She  twitched  away  from  him,  and 
lunged  at  him  playfully  with  her  budding  horns. 

"  Joe !  Joe !"  called  quaking  little  Sarah  Jane. 

Joe  "West  gave  one  glance  at  her;  his  face 
flushed  a  burning  red;  then  he  left  the  bossy 
and  went  with  long  strides  across  the  fields  tow 
ards  his  home.  The  poor  girl  followed  him. 

"  Joe !  Joe !"  called  the  little  despairing  voice, 
but  he  never  turned  his  head. 

Sarah  Jane  got  past  his  house ;  then  she  sat 
down  beside  the  road  and  wept.  She  did  not 
know  how  Joe  "West,  remorseful  and  penitent, 
was  peeping  at  her  from  his  window.  She  did 
not  know  of  the  tragedy  which  had  just  been 
enacted  over  there  in  the  clover -field.  The 
bossy  calf,  who  was  hungry  for  all  strange  arti 
cles  of  food,  had  poked  her  inquiring  nose  into 
Joe  West's  jacket  pocket,  whence  a  bit  of  French 
calico  emerged,  had  caught  hold  of  it,  and,  in 
short,  had  then  and  there  eaten  up  Lily  Kosalie 
Violet  May.  Joe  had  made  an  attempt  to  pull 


WHERE   SARAH  JANETS  DOLL  WENT  136 

her  by  her  silken  wig  out  of  that  greedy  mouth, 
but  the  bossy  calmly  chewed  on. 

It  was  just  as  well  that  Sarah  Jane  did  not 
know  it  at  the  time.  She  had  enough  to  bear — 
her  own  distress  over  the  loss  of  the  doll,  and  the 
reproaches  of  Serena  and  her  mother.  They 
agreed  that  the  loss  of  the  doll  served  her  right 
for  her  disobedience,  and  that  nothing  should  be 
said  to  Joe  West.  They  also  thought  the  affair 
too  trivial  to  fuss  over.  Lily  Kosalie  even  in  her 
designer's  eyes  was  not  what  she  was  to  Sarah 
Jane. 

"  If  you'd  minded  me  you  wouldn't  have  lost 
it,"  said  Serena.  "  I  am  not  going  to  make  you 
another." 

Sarah  Jane  hung  her  head  meekly.  But  in 
the  course  of  three  months  she  had  another  doll 
in  a  very  unexpected  and  curious  way. 

One  evening  there  was  a  knock  on  the  side 
door,  and  when  it  was  opened  there  was  no  one 
there,  but  on  the  step  lay  a  big  package  directed 
to  Sarah  Jane.  It  contained  a  real  bought  doll, 
with  a  china  head  and  a  cloth  body,  who  was 
gorgeously  and  airily  attired  in  pink  tarlatan 
with  silver  spangles.  The  memory  of  Lily  Eosa- 
lie  paled. 

There  was  great  wonder  and  speculation.  No 
body  dreamed  how  poor  Joe  West  had  driven 


136 


cows  from  pasture,  and  milked,  and  chopped 
wood,  out  of  school-hours,  and  taken  every  cent 
he  had  earned  and  bought  this  doll  to  atone  for 
the  theft  of  Lily  Kosalie  Yiolet  May. 

Sarah  Jane's  mother  declared  that  she  should 
not  carry  this  doll,  no  matter  whence  it  came,  to 
school,  and  she  never  did  but  once — that  was  on 
her  birthday,  and  she  teased  so  hard,  and  prom 
ised  not  to  let  any  one  take  her,  that  her  mother 
consented. 

At  recess  Sarah  Jane  was  again  the  centre  of 
attraction.  She  turned  that  wonderful  pink  tarla 
tan  lady  round  and  round  before  the  admiring 
eyes ;  but  when  Joe  West,  meek  and  mildly  con 
ciliatory,  approached  the  circle,  she  clutched  her 
tightly  and  turned  her  back  on  him. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  have  Joe  West  steal  another 
doll,"  said  she.  And  Joe  colored  and  retreated. 

Years  afterwards,  when  Joe  was  practising  law 
in  the  city,  and  came  home  for  a  visit,  and  Sarah 
Jane  was  so  grown-up  that  she  wore  a  white 
muslin  hat  with  rosebuds,  and  a  black  silk  man 
tilla,  to  church,  she  knew  the  whole  story,  and 
they  had  a  laugh  over  it. 


SEVENTOES'  GHOST 


"You  needn't  waste  any  more  time  talkin' 
about  it,  Benjamin;  you  can  jest  take  that 
puppy-dog  and  carry  him  off.  I  don't  care 
what  you  do  with  him ;  you  can  carry  him  back 
where  you  got  him,  or  give  him  away,  or  swap 
him  off ;  but  jest  as  sure  as  you  leave  him  here 
half  an  hour  longer,  I'll  call  Jimmy  up  from  the 
hay-field  and  have  him  shoot  him.  I  won't  have 
a  dog  round  the  place,  nohow.  Couldn't  keep 
Seventoes  a  minute ;  he's  dreadful  scart  of  dogs." 

"Grandsir— " 

"Take  that  puppy -dog  and  go  along,  I  tell 
ye.  I  won't  have  any  more  talk  about  it." 

Benjamin  Wellman,  small  and  slight,  sandy- 
haired  and  blue -eyed,  stood  before  his  grand 
father,  who  sat  in  his  big  arm-chair  in  the  east 
door.  Benjamin  held  in  his  right  hand  an  old 
rope,  which  was  attached  to  a  leather  strap 
around  a  puppy's  neck.  The  puppy  pulled  at 


138  SEVENTOES    GHOST 

the  rope,  keeping  it  taut  all  the  time.  He  also 
yelped  shrilly.  He  did  not  like  to  be  tied.  The 
puppy  was  not  a  pretty  one,  being  yellow  and  very 
clumsy;  but  Benjamin  thought  him  a  beauty. 
He  had  urged  to  his  grandfather  that  there 
would  not  be  a  dog  to  equal  him  in  the  neighbor 
hood  when  he  was  grown  up,  but  the  old  man 
had  not  been  moved. 

There  were  tears  in  Benjamin's  pretty  blue 
eyes,  but  his  square  chin  looked  squarer.  He 
tried  to  speak  again.  "  Grandsir — "  he  began. 

"  Not  another  word,"  said  his  grandfather. 

Benjamin  looked  past  his  grandfather  into  the 
kitchen.  His  mother  sat  in  there  stemming  cur 
rants.  He  went  around  to  the  other  door  and 
entered,  dragging  the  puppy  after  him. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  can't  I 
keep  him  ?" 

His  grandfather  in  the  east  door  looked  around 
suspiciously,  but  he  could  hear  nothing ;  he  was 
somewhat  deaf. 

"  No ;  not  if  your  grandfather  don't  want  you 
to,"  said  his  mother ;  "  you  know  I  can't  let  you, 
Benjamin." 

The  puppy  was  whining  piteously,  and  Ben 
jamin  seemed  to  echo  it  when  he  spoke.  "I 
don't  see  why  he  don't  want  me  to.  It  ain't  as 
if  Caasar  was  a  common  puppy.  You  ask  him, 
mother." 


139 


"No,"  returned  his  mother;  "it  won't  do  any 
good.  You  know  how  much  he  thinks  of  Sev- 
entoes,  and  the  dog  might  kill  him  when  he  was 
grown." 

"Wouldn't  care  if  he  did,"  muttered  Benja 
min;  "nothing  but  a  cross  old  stealing  cat; 
don't  begin  to  be  worth  what  this  puppy  is." 

"  JSTow,  Benjamin,  you  mustn't  talk  any  more 
about  it,"  said  his  mother,  severely.  "  Grandsir 
does  too  much  for  you  and  me  for  you  to  make 
any  fuss  about  a  thing  like  this.  Take  that 
puppy  and  run  right  along  with  it,  as  he  tells 
you  to." 

Grandsir's  suspicions  suddenly  took  shape 
then.  "Benjamin,  you  run  right  along,"  he 
called  out;  "don't  stand  there  teasing  your 
mother  about  it." 

So  Benjamin  gathered  the  puppy  up  into  his 
arms  with  a  jerk — it  was  impossible  to  lead  him 
any  distance — and  plunged  out  of  the  house- 
He  gave  two  or  three  little  choking  sobs  as  he 
hurried  along.  It  was  a  hot  day,  and  he  was 
tired  and  disappointed  and  discouraged.  He 
had  walked  three  miles  over  to  the  village  and 
back  to  get  that  puppy,  and  now  he  had  to  walk 
a  mile  more  to  give  it  away.  He  had  no  doubt 
whatever  as  to  the  disposal  of  it ;  he  knew  Sam 
my  Tucker  would  give  it  a  hearty  welcome,  for 


140 

there  was  an  understanding  to  that  effect.  Ben 
jamin  had  been  a  little  doubtful  as  to  the  recep 
tion  the  puppy  might  have  from  his  grand 
father;  but  when  Mr.  Dyer,  who  kept  the 
village  grocery  store,  had  offered  it  to  him  three 
weeks  before,  he  had  not  had  the  courage  to  re 
fuse.  Sammy  Tucker,  too,  had  been  in  the  store, 
buying  three  bars  of  soap  for  his  mother,  and  he 
had  looked  on  admiringly  and  enviously.  When 
Benjamin  had  mentioned  hesitatingly  his  doubts 
about  his  grandfather,  Sammy  had  pricked  up 
his  ears. 

"  Say,  Ben,  you  give  him  to  me  if  your  grand 
father  won't  let  you  keep  him,"  he  had  whis 
pered,  with  a  nudge.  "  Father  said  I  might  have 
a  dog  soon  as  there  was  a  good  chance,  and  Mr. 
Dyer  won't  want  it  back.  He's  giv  away  all 
but  this,  and  he  wants  to  get  rid  of  'em.  They're 
common  kind  of  dogs,  anyhow.  I  heard  him 
say  so." 

Benjamin  had  looked  at  him  stiffly.  "  Oh,  I 
guess  grandsir  '11  let  me  keep  this  puppy,  he's  such 
a  smart  one,"  he  had  answered,  with  dignity. 

"  Well,  you  ask  him,  and  if  he  won't,  I'll  take 
him,"  said  Sammy. 

But  Benjamin  had  not  asked  his  grandfather. 
He  had  not  had  courage  to  run  the  risk.  He 
had  waited  the  three  weeks  which  the  store- 


SEVENTOES'    GHOST  141 

keeper  had  said  must  elapse  before  the  little  dog 
could  leave  its  mother,  and  then  had  gone  over 
to  the  village  and  brought  it  home,  without  a 
word  to  any  one,  trusting  to  the  puppy's  own 
attractions  to  plead  for  it.  It  had  seemed  to 
Benjamin  that  nobody  could  resist  that  puppy. 
But  Grandfather  Wellman  had  all  his  life  pre 
ferred  cats  to  dogs,  and  now  he  was  childishly 
fond  of  Seventoes.  Benjamin's  mother  often 
said  that  she  didn't  know  what  grandsir  would 
do  if  anything  happened  to  Seventoes. 

Benjamin,  going  out  of  the  yard  with  the 
puppy  under  his  arm,  could  see  Seventoes  sitting 
on  the  shed  roof.  That  and  the  ledge  of  the  old 
well  behind  the  barn  were  his  favorite  perches. 
Grandfather  Wellman  thought  he  chose  them 
because  he  was  so  afraid  of  dogs.  Benjamin 
looked  at  him,  and  wished  Caesar  was  big 
enough  to  shake  him.  He  had  named  the  pup 
py  Caesar  on  his  way  home  from  the  village. 
There  was  a  great  mastiff  over  there  by  the 
same  name.  Benjamin  had  always  admired  this 
big  Caesar,  and  now  thought  he  would  name  his 
dog  after  him.  It  was  the  same  principle  re 
duced  on  which  Benjamin  himself  had  been 
named  after  Benjamin  Franklin. 

Benjamin  trudged  down  the  road,  kicking  up 
the  dust  with  his  toes.  That  was  something  he 


142 

had  been  told  not  to  do,  so  now  in  this  state  of 
mind  he  liked  to  do  it.  The  sun  beat  down 
fiercely  upon  his  small  red  cropped  head  in  the 
burned  straw -hat,  and  his  slender  shoulders  in 
the  calico  blouse.  The  puppy  was  large  and  fat 
for  his  age,  and  made  his  arms  ache.  The  stone 
walls  on  both  sides  of  the  road  were  hidden  with 
wild -rose  and  meadowsweet  bushes;  the  fields 
were  dotted  with  hay-makers ;  now  and  then  a 
loaded  hay-cart  loomed  up  in  the  road.  Many 
boys  no  older  than  Benjamin  had  to  work  hard 
in  the  hay-fields,  but  Grandfather  Wellman  was 
too  careful  of  him ;  he  would  not  let  him  work 
much  in  vacation ;  he  had  never  been  considered 
very  strong.  But  Benjamin  did  not  think  of 
that.  One  grievance  will  outweigh  a  hundred 
benefits.  He  hugged  the  struggling  puppy  tight 
in  his  arms  and  trudged  on  painfully,  brooding 
over  his  wrongs. 

He  muttered  to  himself  as  he  went,  "  Wanted 
a  dog  ever  since  I  was  born.  All  the  other  boys 
have  got  'em.  'Ain't  never  had  nothing  but  an 
old  cat.  Sha'n't  never  have  a  chance  to  get  such 
a  dog  as  this  again.  Wish  something  would 
happen  to  that  old  cat ;  shouldn't  care  a  mite." 
He  stubbed  more  fiercely  into  the  dust,  and  it 
flew  higher ;  a  squirrel  ran  across  the  road,  and 
he  looked  at  it  with  an  indifferent  scowl. 


143 


When  he  reached  Sammy  Tucker's  house  he 
saw  Sammy  out  in  the  great  north  yard  raking 
hay  with  his  father.  Sammy  looked  up  and 
saw  Benjamin  coming. 

"Holloa!"  he  sang  out,  eagerly.  Then  he 
dropped  his  rake  and  raced  into  the  road.  His 
black  eyes  winked  fast  with  excitement.  "  Say, 
won't  he  let  you  keep  him,  Ben  ?"  he  cried. 

"  No ;  he  won't  let  me  keep  nothing." 

"  Going  to  let  me  have  him,  then  ?" 

"  S'pose  so." 

Sammy  reached  forth  his  eager  hands,  and 
took  the  kicking  puppy  from  Benjamin's  reluc 
tant  arms.  "  Nice  fellar — nice  little  fellar,"  said 
he,  tenderly. 

"  I've  named  him  Ca3sar,"  said  Benjamin. 

"  That's  a  good  name,"  assented  Sammy.  "  Hi, 
Caesar !  Hi,  sir !" 

Sammy's  father  came  smilingly  forward  to  the 
fence ;  he  was  fond  of  dogs.  He  also  took  the 
puppy,  and  talked  to  it.  Benjamin  thought  to 
himself  that  he  wished  his  grandfather  was  more 
like  Sammy's  father.  He  looked  on  gloomily. 

"Hate  to  give  it  up,  don't  you,  Ben?"  said 
Mr.  Tucker,  kindly. 

"  Sha'n't  never  have  such  a  chance  again." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will ;  your  grandfather  '11  let 
you  have  a  dog  some  time." 


144  SEVENTOES'    GHOST 

"  No ;  he  won't  never  let  me  have  nothing." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  give  up  yet,  Ben." 

Benjamin  shook  his  head  like  a  discouraged 
old  man,  and  turned  to  go  home. 

"  Sammy  '11  feed  him,  and  take  real  good  care 
of  him,  and  you  can  come  over  here  and  see 
him,"  Mr.  Tucker  called  after  him,  as  he  went 
down  the  road. 

Benjamin  thought  to  himself  that  he  should 
not  want  to,  as  he  marched  wearily  homeward. 
His  arms  were  lightened  of  the  puppy,  but  his 
heart  seemed  heavy  within  him.  Two  boys 
whom  he  knew  sang  out  to  him  from  a  load  of 
hay,  but  he  gave  only  a  grim  nod  in  response. 
"  They've  got  a  dog,"  he  muttered ;  and  indeed 
the  pretty  shepherd  dog  was  following  after  the 
load. 

Benjamin,  when  he  came  in  sight  of  home, 
thought  he  would  take  a  short-cut  through  the 
orchard.  He  meditated  stealing  up  the  back 
stairs  to  his  chamber,  staying  up  there,  and  say 
ing  that  he  did  not  want  any  supper;  he  was 
not  hungry.  They  had  not  cut  the  grass  in  the 
orchard,  and  he  plunged  through  clover,  feath 
ery  grass,  and  daisies  to  his  waist.  He  felt 
pleased  to  think  how  he  was  making  a  furrow 
through  his  grandfather's  hay.  He  emerged 
from  the  orchard,  and  went  on  towards  the 


145 


barn ;  directly  back  of  it  was  the  old  well. 
When  he  reached  that  he  stopped  short.  There 
was  Seventoes — beautiful  great  yellow  cat — 
stretched  in  the  sun,  all  his  wonderful  seven- 
toed  paws  spread  out.  The  ledge  of  the  old 
well  was  a  strange  place  for  a  cat,  but  Seventoes 
was  fond  of  it,  and  stayed  there  much  of  the  time 
when  he  was  not  on  the  shed  roof. 

Benjamin  walked  close  to  the  well  and  looked 
at  Seventoes.  His  small  face  was  burning  red 
with  the  heat ;  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  angrily. 
"  You  lazy  old  cat,"  said  he.  He  stood  a  second 
longer;  then  he  thrust  out  his  right  hand  and 
gave  Seventoes  a  push.  There  was  a  piteous 
yawl  and  a  great  clawing,  and  Seventoes  was 
out  of  sight.  Benjamin  ran.  He  gasped ;  a 
white  streak  was  settling  around  his  mouth. 
He  was  well  versed  in  Bible  stories,  and  he 
thought  of  Cain.  What  had  he  done?  What 
would  happen  to  him  ?  Could  he  ever  get  away 
from  his  guilt,  run  fast  as  he  would  ?  Benjamin 
ran  as  he  had  never  run  before,  his  heart  pound 
ing,  although  he  did  not  know  clearly  what  he 
was  running  for.  He  tore  around  the  barn, 
through  the  pasture  bars,  towards  the  house. 
When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  shed  a  great 
qualm  of  guilt  and  remorse  forced  him  to  glance 
up  at  the  place  where  poor  Seventoes  had  so 


146  SEVENTOES'    GHOST 

loved  to  sit,  and  where  he  would  sit  no  more. 
Benjamin  glanced,  then  he  stood  stock-still,  fair 
ly  aghast  with  awe  and  terror — there  sat  Seven- 
toes! 

All  the  red  faded  out  of  Benjamin's  cheeks. 
He  had  never  been  encouraged  in  superstitious 
beliefs,  but  he  was  an  imaginative  child,  and  just 
now  bewildered  and  unstrung.  He  stared  at  the 
shed  roof.  Yes !  he  saw  Seventoes  there,  and 
Seventoes  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  old  well. 
Had  he  not  seen  him  fall,  clawing,  down  ? 

Benjamin  rushed  staggering  into  the  kitchen. 
"  Oh,  grandsir !  oh,  mother !"  he  wailed — "  oh, 
I've  pushed  Seventoes  into  the  old  well  and 
drowned  him,  and  his  ghost's  sitting  on  the  shed 
roof!  Oh,  mother!" 

Grandfather  Wellman  was  confined  to  his 
chair  with  rheumatism,  but  he  arose.  "  Pushed 
Seventoes  into  the  well,"  he  repeated,  while  Ben 
jamin's  mother  turned  as  pale  as  her  son. 

"  I  have — I  have,"  sobbed  Benjamin.  "  I 
didn't  know  I  was  going  to,  but  I  have.  And 
he's  in  the  well,  and  he's  sitting  on  the  shed  roof 
too.  Oh!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  his  mother  gasped. 
"  Stop  acting  so,  and  tell  me  what  you've  done." 

"I  pushed  Seventoes  into  the  old  well.  I 
didn't  know  I  was  going  to,  but  I  did  ;  and  he's 


SEVENTOES'    GHOST  149 

dead  in  there,  and  he's  on  the  shed  roof.     Oh, 
mother !" 

"You  'ain't  pushed  that  cat  into  the  well?" 
groaned  Grandfather  Wellman.  "  If  you  have- 
He  was  trying  to  limp  across  the  kitchen  with 
his  cane.  He,  too,  was  pale,  and  trembling  from 
head  to  foot.  "  Hannah,"  he  said  to  Benjamin's 
mother, "  you  come  right  along  quick,  and  see  if 
we  can't  get  him  out.  I  wouldn't  take  a  hun 
dred  dollars  for  that  cat." 

Benjamin's  mother  started.  Benjamin,  sob 
bing  and  trembling,  was  clinging  to  her.  Just 
then  Seventies  walked  in  through  the  east  door, 
his  splendid  ringed  tail  waving  a  little  uneasily, 
but  not  a  hair  of  him  was  hurt.  A  frightened 
cat  can  run  faster  than  a  guilty  little  boy,  and 
Seventoes  had  found  his  unusual  number  of 
claws  of  good  service  in  climbing  a  well  and  re 
tarding  his  progress  towards  the  bottom. 

They  all  looked. 

"Is  it— Seventoes?"  gasped  Benjamin,  with 
wild  eyes. 

"  Of  course  it's  Seventoes,"  growled  his  grand 
father.  "I'd  like  to  know  what  you've  been 
cutting  up  so  for.  Pussy,  pussy,  pussy." 

Benjamin's  mother  took  him  over  to  the  sink, 
and  put  some  water  on  his  head,  and  made  him 
drink  some.  "  There's  no  such  thing  as  a  ghost, 


150  SEVENTOES'    GHOST 

and  you're  acting  very  silly,"  said  she ;  "  but  I 
don't  wonder  you  are  scared,  when  you've  done 
such  a  dreadful  thing.  It  scares  me  to  think  of 
it.  It  was  'most  as  bad  as  killing  somebody.  I 
never  thought  a  boy  of  mine  would  do  such  a 
thing.  Grandsir  good  as  he  is  to  you,  too." 

"  I — won't  ever  do  so — again,"  sobbed  Benja 
min,  all  trembling.  "  I'm  sorry ;  I  am  sorry." 

Benjamin  was  not  whipped,  the  scourging  of 
his  own  conscience  had  been  severe  enough,  but 
he  sat  pale  and  sober  in  the  kitchen,  while  grand- 
sir,  with  Seventoes  on  his  knees,  and  his  mother 
talked  to  him. 

"  If  you  ever  do  anything  like  this  again,  Ben 
jamin,"  said  his  grandfather,  "I  shall  be  ha'sh 
with  you,  ha'sher  than  I've  ever  been,  and  you 
must  remember  it." 

"  I  guess  he  must,"  said  his  mother.  "  It  was 
a  dreadful  wicked  thing,  and  he  should  be  pun 
ished  now  if  I  didn't  think  he'd  suffered  enough 
from  his  own  guilty  conscience  for  this  time,  and 
would  never  as  long  as  he  lived  do  such  a  terrible 
thing  again." 

"  I  won't— I — won't !"  choked  Benjamin. 

At  supper- time,  when  the  new  milk  was 
brought  in  from  the  barn,  Benjamin  filled  a  sau 
cer  with  it  and  carried  it  to  the  door  for  Seven- 
toes.  He  filled  it  so  full  that  he  spilled  it  all  the 


SEVENTOES'    GHOST  151 

way  over  the  clean  kitchen  floor,  but  his  mother 
said  nothing.  Seventoes  lapped  his  milk  hap 
pily;  Benjamin,  with  his  little  contrite,  tear- 
stained  face,  stood  watching  him,  and  grandsir 
sat  in  his  arm-chair.  Over  in  the  fields  the  hay 
makers  were  pitching  the  last  loads  into  the 
carts ;  the  east  sky  was  red  with  the  reflected 
color  of  the  west.  Everything  was  sweet  and 
cool  and  peaceful,  and  the  sun  was  not  going 
down  on  Benjamin's  childish  wrath.  His  grand 
father  put  out  his  hand  and  patted  his  little  red 
cropped  head,  "You're  always  going  to  be  a 
good  boy  after  this,  ain't  you,  sonny  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Benjamin,  and  he  got  down 
on  his  knees  and  hugged  Seventoes. 


LITTLE  MIRANDY 

AND  HOW  SHE  EARNED  HER  SHOES 


BY  the  1st  of  June  Mrs.  Thayer  had  the  sun- 
bonnets  done.  There  were  four  of  them,  for  the 
four  youngest  girls— Eliza,  Mary  Ann,  Harriet, 
and  Mirandy.  She  had  five  daughters  besides 
these,  but  two  were  married  and  gone  away  from 
home,  and  the  other  three  were  old  enough  to 
make  their  own  sun-bonnets. 

There  were  four  Thayer  boys;  one  of  them 
came  next  to  Mirandy,  the  youngest  girl,  the 
others  ranked  upward  in  age  from  Harriet,  who 
was  eleven,  to  Sarah  Jane,  who  was  sixteen. 
There  were  thirteen  sons  and  daughters  in  all 
in  Josiah  Thayer's  family,  and  eleven  were  at 
home.  It  was  hard  work  to  get  enough  from 
the  stony  New  England  farm  to  feed  them ;  and 
let  Mrs.  Thayer  card  and  spin  and  dye  and 
weave  as  she  would,  the  clothing  often  ran 
short.  And  so  it  happened  that  little  Mirandy 
Thayer,  aged  six,  had  no  shoes  to  her  feet. 


AND   HOW    SHE   EARNED   HER   SHOES  153 

One  Sunday  in  June  she  cried  because  she  had 
to  go  to  meeting  barefooted. 

"Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  a  great  big 
girl  like  you,  crying?"  said  her  mother,  sternly. 
"  You  go  right  over  there,  and  sit  down  on  the 
settle  till  father  gets  hitched  up,  and  Daniel,  you 
go  and  sit  down  'side  of  her,  and  teach  her  the 
first  question  in  the  catechism.  She'd  ought  to 
find  out  there's  something  else  to  be  thought 
about  on  the  Sabbath  day  besides  shoes." 

So  Mirandy,  sniffing  between  the  solemn 
words,  repeated  them  after  Daniel,  who  was 
twelve  years  old,  and  knew  his  catechism  quite 
thoroughly.  And  when  the  great  farm  wagon, 
with  the  team  of  oxen,  stood  before  the  door, 
she  climbed  in  with  the  rest  without  a  murmur. 

But  sitting  in  the  meeting-house  through  the 
two  hours'  discourse,  she  drew  up  her  little  bare 
feet  under  her  blue  petticoat,  and  going  down 
the  aisle  afterwards,  she  crouched,  making  it 
sweep  the  floor,  until  her  mother  dragged  her 
up  forcibly  by  one  arm. 

"Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?"  she  whis 
pered.  "  A  great  big  girl  like  you !" 

Mirandy  was  in  reality  very  small  for  her  age, 
and  everybody  called  her  "  little ;"  but  she  got 
very  few  privileges  on  account  of  her  youth  and 
littleness.  In  those  days,  and  especially  in  a 


154  LITTLE    MIRANDY 

family  like  Josiah  Thayer's,  where  there  were  so 
many  children  that  each  had  to  scratch  for  itself 
at  an  early  age  or  go  without,  six  years  was  con 
sidered  comparatively  mature,  and  the  child  who 
had  lived  that  long  was  not  exempt  from  many 
duties. 

So  Mrs.  Thayer  did  not  think  herself  in  the 
least  severe  when  she  said  to  Mirandy  after 
meeting :  "  If  you  want  some  shoes  so  bad,  you'll 
have  to  work  an'  earn  'em." 

Mirandy  looked  up  inquiringly  at  her  mother. 

"  You  can  pick  berries  an'  sell  'em,"  replied 
her  mother.  "  You're  plenty  big  enough  to." 

Mirandy  said  nothing,  and  soon  her  mother  set 
her  to  rocking  Jonathan  in  his  red  wooden  cra 
dle  ;  but  as  she  sat,  with  her  small  bare  foot  on 
the  rocker,  ambition  expanded  wider  and  wider 
in  her  childish  soul,  and  she  resolved  that  she 
would  earn  some  shoes. 

The  berries  were  not  ripe  before  the  middle 
of  July.  She  had  some  five  weeks  to  wait  be 
fore  she  could  fairly  begin  work.  But  not  a  day 
passed  that  she  did  not  visit  the  pastures  to  see 
if  the  berries  were  ripe.  She  brought  home  so 
many  partially  ripe  ones  for  samples  that  her 
brothers  and  sisters  remonstrated.  They,  too, 
were  vitally  interested  in  the  berry  crop  in  be 
half  of  shoes  and  many  other  things.  "  She 


AND   HOW    SHE   EABNED   HER   SHOES  155 

won't  leave  any  berries  on  the  bushes  to  get  ripe 
if  she  picks  so  many  green  ones,"  they  com 
plained,  and  her  mother  issued  a  stern  decree 
that  Mirandy  should  not  go  to  the  berry  pasture 
until  the  berries  were  fairly  ripe. 

But  at  last,  one  hot  morning  in  July,  the  squad 
of  berry-pickers  started.  There  were  four  Thayer 
girls  and  two  Thayer  boys,  besides  Jonathan,  the 
baby,  whom  Eliza  dragged  in  his  little  wooden 
wagon. 

"  If  you  go  berrying  this  mornin',  you've  got 
to  take  Jonathan  with  you,"  Mrs.  Thayer  had 
said.  "  Dorcas  is  weaving,  an'  Lyddy  an'  I  have 
got  to  dye.  You'll  have  to  take  him  out  in  the 
pasture  with  you,  an'  tend  him." 

The  berry  pasture  whither  they  were  bound 
was  about  a  half-mile  from  home.  The  two  boys 
scurried  on  ahead,  the  four  yellow  sun-bonnets 
marched  bravely  on,  and  Jonathan's  wagon  rat 
tled  behind. 

"  The  berries  are  real  thick,"  said  Harriet ; 
"but  they  say  the  bushes  are  loaded  with  'em 
over  in  Cap'n  Moseby's  lot,  an'  they're  as  big  as 
walnuts." 

"He  can't  use  quarter  of  'em  himself,"  re 
turned  Mary  Ann.  "  I  call  it  real  stingy  not  to 
let  folks  go  in  there  pickin' !"  She  nodded  her 
sun-bonnet  indignantly. 


156  LITTLE   MIRANDY 

"When  they  reached  the  berry  pasture,  they 
fell  to  work  eagerly.  Jonathan's  wagon  was 
drawn  up  on  one  side,  under  the  shade  of  a  pine- 
tree,  and  Mirandy  was  bidden  to  have  an  eye  to 
him.  Nobody  had  much  faith  in  the  seriousness 
of  Mirandy's  picking,  and  they  thought  that  she 
might  as  well  tend  Jonathan  and  leave  them  free. 

But  Mirandy  stationed  herself  at  a  bush  near 
Jonathan,  and  began  with  a  will.  They  all  had 
birch  baskets  fastened  at  their  waists  to  pick 
into,  and  they  had  brought  buckets  to  fill.  Mi 
randy  had  hers  as  well  as  the  rest. 

The  yellow  sun-bonnets  and  the  palm-leaf  hats 
waved  about  among  the  bushes,  and  the  berries 
fell  fast  into  the  birch-bark  baskets.  Mirandy 
stayed  close  to  Jonathan,  as  she  had  been  bidden, 
and  she  struggled  bravely  with  her  berry  bush, 
but  it  was  too  tall  for  her ;  the  bushes  in  this  past 
ure  were  very  tall.  Mirandy  tugged  the  branches 
down,  and  panted  for  breath.  She  was  eager  to 
fill  her  basket  as  soon  as  anybody.  She  heard 
Harriet  and  Mary  Ann  talking  near  her,  although 
she  could  not  see  them. 

"  Cap'n  Moseby's  pasture  is  right  over  there. 
You  get  over  the  stone-wall,  and  go  across  one 
field,  and  you  come  to  it,"  remarked  Harriet. 

"  I  s'pose  the  berries  are  as  thick  as  spatters," 
said  Mary  Ann,  with  a  sigh. 


AND    HOW    SHE   EARNED    HER    SHOES  157 

uDan'l  says  the  bushes  are  dragging  down 
with  'em." 

"  Well,"  said  Mary  Ann,  "  nobody  would  dare 
to  go  there,  for  he  keeps  that  great  black  dog, 
and  I've  heard  he  watches  with  a  gun." 

"So've  I.  No;  I  shouldn't  dare  to  go.  I 
s'pose  it  would  be  stealing,  anyway." 

"I  don't  s'pose  'twould,"  rejoined  Harriet, 
hotly.  "  I  guess  if  anything  is  free,  berry  past 
ures  are.  Who  planted  berry  bushes,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"I  s'pose  the  Lord  did,"  said  Mary  Ann. 
"  Mebbe  it  ain't  stealin',  but  anyhow  I  shouldn't 
dare  to  go  there." 

"I  shouldn't,"  agreed  Harriet;  "an'  I  know 
Dan'l  and  Abijah  wouldn't." 

Mirandy  listened;  she  thought  both  Harriet 
and  Mary  Ann  very  wise.  She  trusted  to  their 
conclusion  that  it  would  not  be  stealing  to  pick 
Cap'n  Moseby's  berries,  but  she  privately  thought 
she  would  "  dare  to." 

Mirandy  did  not  know  what  fear  was ;  dogs 
did  not  alarm  her  in  the  least ;  and  as  for  Cap'n 
Moseby  and  his  gun,  she  knew  he  would  not 
shoot  her ;  once  he  had  given  her  some  pepper 
mints. 

She  pulled  her  bush  down  painfully,  and 
thought  the  berries  were  not  very  large,  and 


158  LITTLE    MIRANDY 

how  fast  those  in  Cap'n  Moseby's  pasture  would 
fill  up.  Harriet's  and  Mary  Ann's  voices  grew 
fainter.  Mirandy  let  the  bush  fly  back,  and 
pushed  softly  through  a  tangle  of  blackberry 
vines  to  the  stone -wall;  a  narrow  stretch  of 
rocky  land  lay  between  it  and  the  other  which 
bounded  Cap'n  Moseby's  land.  Mirandy  stood 
on  tiptoe,  and  peered  over ;  then  she  looked  at 
Jonathan  asleep  in  his  little  wagon,  his  yellow 
lashes  on  his  pink  cheeks,  his  fat  fists  doubled  up. 

Mirandy  was  loyal,  although  she  was  so  young, 
and  she  had  been  bidden  not  to  leave  Jonathan. 
She  looked  at  him,  then  at  the  stone -wall;  it 
was  manifestly  impossible  for  her  to  lift  him 
over  that.  She  took  hold  of  the  little  wagon, 
and  pushed  it  carefully  along.  She  remembered 
that  she  had  seen  some  bars  a  little  farther  back. 

When  she  reached  the  bars,  she  shook  Jona 
than  until  he  woke  up.  He  stared  at  her  in  a 
surprised  way,  but  never  cried ;  he  was  a  good 
baby. 

"  Put  your  arms  round  sister's  neck,"  ordered 
Mirandy  ;  and  Jonathan  obeyed. 

Mirandy  tugged  him  out  of  his  little  wagon, 
and  they  both  rolled  over  under  a  berry  bush. 
Still  Jonathan  did  not  cry.  He  only  gurgled  a 
little,  by  way  of  laugh.  He  thought  Mirandy 
was  playing  with  him. 


AND    HOW    SHE    EARNED    HER    SHOES  159 

The  bars  were  close  together,  and  Mirandy 
could  not  stir  one.  Jonathan  gurgled  again 
when  his  sister  rolled  him,  like  a  ball,  under  the 
lowest  bar,  and  then  rolled  under  herself.  But 
it  was  harder  for  her  to  tug  Jonathan  across  to 
the  other  bars  which  guarded  Cap'n  Moseby's 
berry  pasture ;  he  could  only  toddle  feebly  when 
led  by  a  strong  hand.  It  was  quite  a  puzzle  for 
six-year-old  Mirandy,  but  she  got  him  across  and 
under  the  other  bars ;  then  she  set  him  down  in 
a  sweet-fern  thicket,  and  bade  him  keep  still ; 
and  he  fell  asleep  again. 

Mirandy  picked  until  she  had  filled  her  bucket 
and  rounded  it  up.  Her  heart  beat  faster  and 
faster;  her  face  was  flushed  and  eager;  she 
looked  a  year  older  than  when  she  started  that 
morning.  She  had  seen  no  great  black  dog,  and 
Cap'n  Moseby,  with  his  gun,  had  not  appeared. 
In  the  distance  she  could  see  the  hipped  roof 
and  squat  chimney  of  the  Moseby  house;  but 
nobody  molested  her. 

When  her  bucket  was  full,  she  tugged  Jona 
than  across  the  field  again.  This  time  he  re 
belled  ;  a  blackberry  vine  had  scratched  his  little 
legs,  and  his  peace  was  too  rudely  disturbed. 
Mirandy  tugged  him  into  his  little  wagon,  and 
he  lay  there  kicking  and  screaming.  She  flew 
back  across  the  field  for  her  bucket  of  berries. 


160  LITTLE   MIRANDY 

She  had  been  forced  to  leave  it  while  she  brought 
Jonathan  over,  and  the  bucket  was  gone.  She 
had  set  it  close  to  the  bars,  and  there  could  be 
no  mistake  about  it. 

Mirandy  went  back  across  the  field ;  Jonathan 
wailed  louder  than  ever.  Her  four  sisters  were 
gathered  about  his  little  wagon,  and  Daniel  and 
Abijah  were  coming  through  the  bushes.  Then 
they  all  turned  on  her. 

"  Now,  Mirandy  Thayer,  I'd  like  to  know  this 
minute  where  you've  been  ?"  demanded  Eliza. 

Mirandy  jerked  her  head  backward. 

"You  'ain't  been  over  in  Cap'n  Moseby's 
pasture  3" 

Mirandy  nodded. 

"  She's  been  over  in  Cap'n  Moseby's  pasture," 
announced  Eliza  to  the  others. 

They  all  stared  at  Mirandy,  and  paid  no  heed 
to  Jonathan's  wails. 

Suddenly  Mirandy  flung  her  little  blue  apron 
over  her  face  and  began  to  weep. 

"  Did  you  get  scared  ?"  asked  Harriet. 

"  Did  the  dog  chase  you  ?"  asked  Mary  Ann, 
very  excitedly. 

Mirandy  shook  her  head,  and  sobbed  harder. 

"  Did  you  see  Cap'n  Moseby  with  his  gun  ?" 
asked  Daniel. 

Mirandy  shook  her  head. 


AND   HOW   SHE   EARNED   HER   SHOES  161 

"  I  wouldn't  be  such  a  baby  for  nothing,  then," 
said  Daniel. 

"  I've  lost  my  bucket !"  sobbed  Mirandy. 

"  Lost  your  bucket !"  repeated  Eliza.  She  was 
the  oldest  sister  there. 

Mirandy  nodded. 

"  You're  a  wicked  girl !"  Eliza  said,  severely. 
"I  don't  know  what  mother  '11  say.  Here's 
Jonathan  all  scratched  up,  too.  Did  you  take 
him  over  there  ?" 

"  Yes,"  sobbed  Mirandy. 

"  You're  a  dreadful  wicked  girl !  Didn't  you 
know  'twas  stealing  ?" 

"  Harriet  said — it  wasn't,"  returned  Mirandy, 
in  feeble  defence. 

"  It  was.  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  said  such  a 
thing,  Harriet." 

"  Of  course  it's  stealing,"  said  Daniel,  soberly. 

"Here  you've  been  stealing,"  scolded  Eliza; 
"  and  your  bucket's  gone,  and  Jonathan  is  all 
scratched  up  with  blackberry  vines.  I  don't 
know  what  mother  '11  say." 

She  took  Jonathan  out  of  his  wagon  and 
hushed  him,  and  then  they  had  a  consultation 
as  to  what  was  best  to  be  done.  Mirandy 
related,  with  tearful  breaks,  the  story  of  her 
well-filled  bucket  and  its  mysterious  disappear 
ance. 


162  LITTLE   MIBANDY 

"  Of  course  Cap'n  Moseby  was  watching  out 
there  with  his  gun  and  took  it,"  said  Daniel. 

It  was  finally  agreed  that  they  would  all  go 
in  a  body  to  Cap'n  Moseby's,  and  try  to  recover 
Mirandy's  bucket,  that  she  might  not  have  to 
face  her  mother  without  it.  When  they  reached 
the  Moseby  house  the  doors  were  closed  and  the 
windows  looked  blank.  They  knocked  as  loudly 
as  they  dared,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  re 
sponse.  They  looked  at  one  another. 

"  S'pose  he  ain't  at  home  ?"  whispered  Harriet. 

"  Dan'l,  you  pound  on  the  door  again,"  said 
Eliza. 

And  Daniel  pounded.  Abijah  pounded,  too, 
and  Eliza  herself  rattled  away  on  one  panel,  with 
her  freckled  face  screwed  up,  but  nobody  came. 

"  If  he's  there,  he  won't  come  to  the  door," 
said  Daniel. 

Suddenly  the  silence  within  the  house  was 
broken.  Then  came  a  volley  of  quick  barks, 
and  the  children  all  fell  back  in  a  panic,  and 
scurried  into  the  road. 

"  He's  in  there,"  said  Daniel ;  "  an*  he's  been 
keeping  the  dog  still,  but  he  can't  any  longer." 

"  Just  hear  him !"  whispered  Harriet,  with  a 
shudder. 

The  dog  was  not  only  barking  and  growling, 
but  leaping  at  the  door, 


;STHE  VISIT  TO  CAP'N  MOSEBY'S" 


AND   HOW   SHE   EARNED   HER   SHOES  165 

Mary  Ann  began  to  cry.  "  I'm  going  home," 
she  sobbed.  "  S'pose  that  door  should  break ;" 
and  she  started  down  the  road. 

Eliza  grasped  the  handle  of  Jonathan's  wagon. 
"  I  guess  we  might  just  as  well  go,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  b'lieve  he'll  come  to  the  door  if  we 
stand  there  a  week.  I  don't  know  what  mother 
'11  say  when  she  finds  that  good  bucket's  gone. 
I  guess  Mirandy  '11  catch  it.  An'  when  she  finds 
out  she's  been  stealing,  too,  I  don't  know  what 
she  will  say." 

The  sorry  procession  started.  Jonathan's  wag 
on  creaked ;  but  Mirandy  stood  still,  with  a  stub 
born  pout  on  her  mouth,  and  her  brows  contracted 
over  her  blue  eyes. 

"  Come  along,  Mirandy,"  called  Eliza,  with  a 
foreboding  voice. 

But  Mirandy  stood  still. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  ?"  Harriet  said. 

"  I  ain't  coming,"  said  Mirandy. 

"What?" 

"  I  ain't  coming  till  I  get  my  bucket." 

Then  the  whole  procession  stopped,  and  rea 
soned  and  argued,  but  Mirandy  was  unmoved. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  You  can't  get 
in,"  said  Eliza. 

"  I'm  going  to  sit  on  the  door-step  till  Cap'n 
Moseby  comes  out,"  answered  Mirandy. 


166  LITTLE   MIRANDY 

"  You'll  sit  there  all  day,  likely 's  not,"  said 
Eliza.  "What  do  you  s'pose  mother  '11  say? 
I'm  a-going  to  tell  her." 

"She'll  send  me  right  back  again  if  I  don't 
stay,"  said  Mirandy. 

And  there  was  some  show  of  reason  in  what 
she  said.  It  was  indeed  quite  probable  that 
Mrs.  Josiah  Thayer  would  send  Mirandy  straight 
back  again  to  confess  her  sins  and  get  the  bucket. 

"I  don't  know  but  mother  would  send  her 
back,"  said  Eliza ;  and  Daniel  nodded  in  assent. 

"  I'll  stay  with  you,"  said  Mary  Ann,  although 
she  was  still  trembling  with  fear  of  the  dog. 

"  Don't  want  anybody  to  stay,"  protested  Mi 
randy. 

Finally  she  sat  on  Cap'n  Moseby's  door-step, 
and  watched  them  all  straggle  out  of  sight.  The 
creak  of  Jonathan's  wagon  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  until  she  could  hear  it  no  longer.  The 
dog  was  quiet  now.  Mirandy  sat  up  straight  in 
front  of  the  panelled  door. 

She  waited  and  waited;  the  time  went  on, 
and  it  was  high  noon.  She  heard  a  dinner-horn 
in  the  distance.  She  wondered  vaguely  if  Cap'n 
Moseby  didn't  have  any  dinner  because  he  lived 
alone.  She  began  to  feel  hungry  herself.  There 
was  not  a  sound  in  the  house.  She  wanted  to 
cry,  but  she  would  not.  She  sat  perfectly  still. 


AND   HOW    SHE   EARNED   HER   SHOES  167 

Once  in  a  while  she  said  over  to  herself  the 
questions  she  had  learned  from  the  catechism, 
and  she  reflected  much  upon  the  two  boys  in  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress.  She  had  eaten  a  few  of 
the  Cap'n's  berries  as  she  filled  her  bucket,  and 
she  wondered  that  they  did  not  make  her  ill,  as 
the  fruit  did  the  boys. 

Nobody  passed  the  house,  the  insects  rasped 
in  her  ears,  she  thought  her  forlorn  childish 
thoughts,  and  it  was  an  hour  after  noon.  She 
did  not  see  a  curtain  trimmed  with  white  balls 
in  a  window  overhead  pulled  cautiously  to  one 
side,  and  a  grizzled  head  thrust  out;  but  this 
happened  several  times. 

About  two  o'clock  there  was  a  sudden  puff  of 
cool  wind  on  her  back;  she  glanced  around, 
trembling,  and  there  stood  Cap'n  Moseby  in  the 
open  door,  with  his  great  black  dog  at  his  heels. 
His  old  face  was  the  color  of  tanned  leather,  and 
full  of  severe  furrows ;  his  shaggy  brows  frowned 
over  sharp  black  eyes.  He  leaned  upon  a  stout 
oak  staff,  for  he  had  been  lamed  by  a  British 
musket-ball. 

"  Who's  this  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  grim  voice. 

Mirandy  arose  and  stood  about,  and  courtesied. 
She  could  not  find  her  tongue  yet. 

"Hey?" said  Cap'n  Moseby. 

<(  Mirandy  Thayer,"  she  answered  then,  in  a 


168  LITTLE   MIEANDT 

shaking  voice  that  had  yet  a  touch  of  defiance 
in  it. 

"  Mirandy  Thayer,  hey  ?  Well,  what  do  you 
want  here,  Mirandy  Thayer  ?" 

Mirandy  dropped  another  courtesy.  "My 
bucket." 

"  Your  bucket !  What  have  I  got  to  do  with 
your  bucket  ?" 

"  I  left  it  out  in — your  berry  pasture." 

"  Out  in  my  berry  pasture !  So  you  have  been 
stealing  my  berries,  hey?  What  about  your 
bucket?" 

Mirandy's  little  hands  clutched  and  opened  at 
her  sides,  her  face  was  quite  pale,  but  she  looked 
straight  up  at  Cap'n  Moseby.  "  You  took  it," 
said  she. 

Cap'n  Moseby  looked  straight  back  at  her, 
frowning  terribly ;  then,  to  her  great  astonish 
ment,  his  mouth  twitched  as  if  he  were  going  to 
laugh.  "  You  think  I  took  your  bucket,  and  you 
have  been  waiting  here  all  this  time  to  get  it 
back,  hey  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes,*  sir." 

"  Didn't  you  feel  afraid  that  I'd  set  the  dog 
on  you,  or  shoot  you  out  of  the  window  with  my 
gun?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Mirandy. 

"  Well,"  said  Cap'n  Moseby.    He  paused  a  min- 


AND    HOW    SHE    EARNED    HER    SHOES  169 

ute,  his  mouth  twitched  again.  "  You  have  got 
to  come  into  the  house  and  settle  with  me  if  you 
want  your  bucket,"  he  continued,  and  his  voice 
was  still  very  grim. 

Mirandy  stepped  up  on  the  threshold,  and  the 
black  dog  growled  faintly. 

"  Be  still,  Lafayette !"  said  Cap'n  Moseby. 
"  I'm  going  to  settle  with  her.  You  lay  down." 

She  followed  Cap'n  Moseby  into  his  kitchen, 
and  he  pushed  a  little  stool  towards  her.  "Sit 
down,"  said  he. 

And  Mirandy  sat  down.  Directly  opposite  her, 
on  a  corner  of  the  settle,  was  her  berry  bucket, 
and  near  it  stood  the  gun,  propped  against  the 
wall.  She  eyed  it.  There  was  a  vague  fear  in 
her  mind  that  settlement  was  in  some  way  con 
nected  with  that  gun ;  but  she  never  flinched. 
She  was  resolved  to  have  that  bucket. 

Cap'n  Moseby  went  to  the  dresser  and  got  out 
a  large  china  bowl  with  green  sprigs  on  it,  and 
a  pewter  spoon.  He  filled  the  bowl  with  berries 
from  Mirandy's  bucket,  and  then  poured  on  some 
milk  out  of  a  blue  pitcher.  Mirandy  watched 
him. 

He  carried  the  bowl  over  to  her,  and  set  it  in 
her  lap.  "  Eat  'em  all  up,  now,  every  one,"  he 
commanded. 

Mirandy  looked   up   at   him   pitifully.     Her 


170  LITTLE   MIRANDY 

courage  almost  failed.  She  thought  of  the  boys 
and  the  stolen  fruit  in  the  Pilgrim? s  Progress, 
and  she  almost  felt  premonitory  cramps. 

"  Eat  'em,"  ordered  Cap'n  Moseby. 

And  Mirandy  ate  them,  thrusting  the  pewter 
spoon,  laden  with  those  stolen  berries,  desperately 
into  her  mouth.  Never  berries  tasted  like  those 
to  her.  There  was  no  sweetness  in  them.  But 
she  kept  thinking  how  her  mother  could  give 
her  boneset  tea  if  they  made  her  sick,  and  she 
was  determined  to  have  the  bucket  back. 

Cap'n  Moseby  watched  her  as  she  ate.  He 
emptied  the  remaining  berries  out  of  the  bucket 
into  a  large  bowl.  Then  he  sat  opposite,  on  the 
settle.  Lafayette  lay  at  his  feet. 

Mirandy  finished  the  berries,  and  sat  with  the 
empty  bowl  in  her  lap. 

"  Finished  'em  ?"  asked  Cap'n  Moseby. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Now,  Mirandy  Thayer,  I'm  going  to  ask  you 
a  question."  Cap'n  Moseby's  eyes  looked  into 
hers,  and  she  looked  back  into  his.  "  If  you 
hadn't  been  a  little  gal,  Mirandy  Thayer,  what 
would  you  have  been  ?" 

Mirandy  hesitated. 

"Hey?"  said  Cap'n  Moseby. 

"  One  of  my  brothers,"  said  Mirandy,  doubt- 
fully. 


AND   HOW   SHE   EARNED   HER   SHOES  173 

"  No,  you  wouldn't.  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
would  have  been.  You  would  have  been  a  sol 
dier,  and  you  would  have  gone  right  up  to  the 
redcoats'  guns.  Well,  you  must  tend  to  your 
knittin'-work  and  your  spinnin'.  Now  what  did 
you  steal  my  berries  for,  hey  ?" 

"  To  earn  my  shoes,"  faltered  Mirandy ;  she 
felt  a  little  bewildered. 

"  Earn  your  shoes  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  'ain't  got  any  to  wear  to  meetin'." 

"  Have  to  go  barefoot?" 

"  Yes,  sir," 

"  Well,  they  went  barefoot  at  Valley  Forge ; 
that's  nothing.  You  wait  a  minute,  Mirandy 
Thayer." 

And  Mirandy  waited  until  Cap'n  Moseby  had 
limped  into  another  room  and  back  again.  He 
had  a  pair  of  little  rough  shoes  dangling  in  his 
hand. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  "  these  belonged  to  my  Ezra 
that  died.  He  had  some  grit  in  him ;  he'd  have 
done  some  marchin'  in  'em  if  he'd  lived.  They'll 
jest  about  fit  you.  It's  a  pity  you're  a  little  gal. 
Well,  you  must  tend  to  your  knittin'-work  and 
your  spinnin'.  Now  you'd  better  run  home,  an' 
don't  you  ever  come  stealin'  my  berries  again,  or 
you'll  run  faster  than  they  did  at  Lexington." 

And  so  it  happened  that  Mirandy  went  home, 


174  LITTLE   MIRANDT 

about  three  o'clock  of  that  summer  afternoon, 
carrying  her  new  shoes  in  her  berry  bucket,  and 
Cap'n  Moseby  limped  along  at  her  side.  Mi- 
randy  did  not  know  that  he  went  to  explain 
matters  to  her  mother,  so  that  she  should  not  be 
dealt  with  too  severely,  but  she  was  surprised 
that  she  received  so  small  a  chiding. 

"Don't  you  ever  let  me  hear  of  your  doing 
such  a  thing  again,"  said  her  mother ;  and  that 
was  all  she  said. 

The  next  Sunday  Mirandy  went  up  the  aisle 
clattering  bravely  in  little  Ezra  Moseby 's  shoes, 
and  she  could  not  help  looking  often  at  them 
during  the  sermon. 


A  PARSNIP  STEW 


RUTH  stood  by  with  a  dish  and  spoon,  while 
her  mother  stirred  the  stew  carefully  to  be  sure 
that  it  was  not  burning  on  the  bottom  of  the  ket 
tle.  Her  sister  Serena  was  paring  apples  and  play 
ing  with  the  cat,  and  her  father  and  her  uncles 
Caleb  and  Silas  sat  before  the  fire  smoking,  sniff 
ing  the  stew,  and  watching  solemnly.  The  uncles 
had  just  come  in,  and  proposed  staying  to  dinner. 

Mrs.  Whitman  squinted  anxiously  at  the  stew 
as  she  stirred  it.  She  feared  that  there  was  not 
enough  for  dinner,  now  there  were  two  more  to 
eat. 

"I'm  dreadful  afraid  there  ain't  enough  of 
that  stew  to  go  round,"  she  whispered  to  Ruth 
in  the  pantry. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  it  '11  do,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Well,  I  dun  know  about  it.  Your  father  an' 
Caleb  an'  Silas  are  dreadful  fond  of  parsnip  stew, 
an'  I  do  hate  to  have  'em  stinted," 


176  A   PARSNIP   STEW 

"Well,  I  won't  take  any,"  said  Kuth.  "I 
don't  care  much  about  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  a  mouthful,"  rejoined  her 
mother.  "  Mebbe  we  can  make  it  do.  Caleb  an' 
Silas  don't  have  a  good  hot  dinner  very  often, 
an'  I  do  want  them  to  have  enough,  anyway." 

Caleb  and  Silas  Whitman  were  old  bachelors, 
living  by  themselves  in  the  old  Whitman  home 
stead  about  a  mile  away,  and  their  fare  was  un 
derstood  to  be  forlorn  and  desultory.  To-day 
they  watched  with  grave  complacency  while 
their  sister-in-law  cooked  the  stew. 

Over  on  the  other  side  of  the  kitchen  the  ta 
ble  was  set  out  with  the  pewter  plates  and  the 
blue  dishes.  The  stew  was  almost  done,  Mrs. 
Whitman  was  just  about  to  dip  out  the  slices  of 
pork  into  the  dish  that  Euth  held,  when  there 
was  a  roll  of  wheels  out  in  the  yard,  and  a  great 
shadow  passed  over  the  kitchen  floor. 

"  Mother,  it's  the  Wigginses !"  said  Kuth,  in  a 
terrified  whisper. 

"  Good  gracious !"  sighed  her  mother;  "they've 
come  to  dinner." 

Everybody  stared  for  a  second;  then  Mrs. 
Whitman  recovered  herself.  "  Father,  you  go 
out  an'  help  them  put  the  horse  up.  Don't  sit 
there  any  longer." 

Then  she  threw  open  the  door,  and  thrust  her 


A   PARSNIP    STEW  179 

large  handsome  face  out  into  the  rain.  "  Why, 
how  do  you  do,  Mis'  Wiggins?"  said  she,  and  she 
smiled  beamingly. 

The  wagon  looked  full  of  faces.  On  the  front 
seat  were  a  large  man  and  two  little  boys ;  out 
of  the  gloom  in  the  rear  peered  two  women  and  a 
little  girl.  They  were  Mr.  Wiggins,  his  wife  and 
three  children,  and  his  mother.  They  were  dis 
tant  relatives  of  Mrs.  Whitman's ;  they  often  came 
over  to  spend  the  day,  and  always  unannounced. 

Mr.  Whitman  came  out  clumsily  and  opened 
the  barn  doors,  and  Mr.  Wiggins  led  the  horse 
into  the  barn.  "  I  hope  you  'ain't  got  wet,"  Mrs. 
Whitman  said.  Nothing  could  have  exceeded 
her  cordiality;  but  all  the  time  she  was  think 
ing  of  the  parsnip  stew,  and  how  it  surely  would 
not  go  around  now. 

Ruth  had  not  followed  the  others  out  to  greet 
the  guests.  She  stayed  by  the  kettle  and  stirred 
the  stew,  and  scowled.  "  I  think  it's  downright 
mean  for  folks  to  come  in  this  way,  just  dinner 
time,"  said  she  to  the  uncles,  who  had  not  left 
their  chairs.  And  they  gave  short  grunts  which 
expressed  their  assent,  for  neither  of  them  liked 
company. 

They  watched  soberly  as  Ruth  stirred  the 
stew,  but  they  did  not  dream  that  there  was  not 
enough  to  go  around. 


180  A   PARSNIP    STEW 

When  her  mother  and  the  guests  entered, 
Kuth  turned  around  and  bobbed  her  head  stiffly, 
and  said,  "Pretty  well,  thank  you,"  and  then 
stirred  again.  Serena  helped  the  Wigginses 
take  off  their  things.  She  untied  old  Mrs.  Wig- 
gins's  pumpkin  hood,  and  got  her  cap  out  of  her 
cap  basket  and  put  it  on  for  her.  She  also  took 
off  little  Mary  Wiggins's  coat,  and  set  her  in  a 
little  child's  arm-chair  and  gave  her  a  kiss.  Lit 
tle  Mary  Wiggins,  with  her  sober,  chubby  face 
and  her  rows  of  shiny  brown  curls,  in  her  best 
red  frock  and  her  scalloped  pantalets,  was  no 
ticed  admiringly  by  everybody  but  Ruth. 

As  soon  as  she  could  Ruth  cornered  her  moth 
er  in  the  pantry.  "  Mother,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  ?"  said  she. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  do  jest  the  best  I  can,"  she  whis 
pered,  severely.  "I'm  goin'  to  tell  father  an' 
Caleb  an'  Silas  they  mustn't  take  none  of  that 
stew ;  they  can  have  some  bread  an'  apple-sauce. 
I  guess  they'll  git  along." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  Ruth,  in  a  loud  voice. 
"  I  think  it's  mean  and  a  downright  imposition 
on  folks,  coming  in  this  way,  just  dinner-time." 

"  Ruth  Whitman,  if  you  care  anything  about 
me,  you'll  keep  still.  Now  you  get  the  salt-cup 
an'  go  out  there,  an'  put  some  more  salt  in  that 
stew.  It  tasted  dreadful  flat,  I  thought.  I  jest 


A   PARSNIP   STEW  181 

tasted  of  it  when  they  drove  in.  I've  got  to  get 
out  the  other  knives." 

Kuth  caught  up  a  cup  with  a  jerk.  "Well, 
how  much  shall  I  put  in  ?"  she  inquired,  sulkily. 

"  Oh,  quite  a  lot.  You  can  tell.  It  was  dread 
ful  flat.  Taste  of  it." 

But  Kuth  did  not  taste  of  it.  She  scattered 
the  contents  of  the  cup  liberally  into  the  stew, 
gave  it  a  stir,  returned  to  the  pantry,  and  set  the 
cup  down  hard.  "  Well,"  said  she,  "  I've  put  it 
in,  and  now  I'm  goin'." 

"  Ruth  Whitman,  you  ain't  goin'  off  to  school 
without  any  dinner." 

"  I  don't  see  as  there  is  anything  for  dinner  but 
bread  and  apple-sauce,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  want 
any." 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  your 
self,  actin'  so." 

"  I  think  there  are  other  folks  that  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  themselves.  Before  I'd  go  into  folk's 
houses  that  way — " 

"  Ruth  Whitman,  they'll  hear  you !" 

"  I  don't  care  if  they  do.  I've  got  to  go,  any 
way.  It's  late.  I  couldn't  stop  for  dinner  now 
if  I  wanted  to." 

She  went  through  the  kitchen,  where  Serena 
now  tended  the  stew,  only  stopping  to  take  her 
shawl  off  the  peg. 


182  A   PARSNIP   STEW 

"  Why,  you  going  1"  Serena  called  after  her. 

"  I've  got  to ;  it's  late,"  replied  Ruth,  shortly. 
She  faced  about  for  a  second  and  gave  a  stiff 
nod,  which  seemed  directed  at  the  stew -kettle 
rather  than  at  the  Wigginses.  "  Good-bye,"  said 
she.  Then  she  went  out. 

It  was  raining  with  a  hard,  steady  drizzle. 
Euth  had  no  rubbers  nor  water-proof — they  were 
not  yet  invented.  She  sped  along  through  the 
rain  and  mist.  She  had  to  walk  half  a  mile  to 
the  little  house  where  she  taught  the  district 
school,  and  before  she  got  there  she  felt  calmer. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  silly  to  act  so  mad,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  I  know  it  plagued  mother." 

It  was  early  in  the  spring;  the  trees  were 
turning  green  in  the  rain.  Over  in  the  field  she 
could  see  one  peach-tree  in  blossom,  showing 
pink  through  the  mist.  "  I  suppose  Mr.  Wiggins 
couldn't  work  out  to-day,  and  that's  how  they 
happened  to  come.  They  could  have  the  horse. 
But  they  ought  to  have  come  earlier,"  reflected 
Euth.  "  There  are  a  good  many  of  'em  for  Mrs. 
Wiggins  to  get  ready,"  mused  Euth.  "  There's 
old  Mrs.  Wiggins  and  Johnny  and  Sammy  and 
Mary  and  Mr.  Wiggins." 

By  the  time  Euth  was  seated  at  her  table  in 
the  school-room,  and  the  scholars  were  wriggling 
and  twisting  before  her  on  their  wooden  benches, 


A   PAK8NIP    STEW  183 

she  saw  the  matter  quite  plainly  from  the  "Wig 
gins  side.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
behave  just  as  well  as  she  knew  how  to  the 
Wigginses  when  she  got  home.  She  planned 
how  she  would  swing  little  Mary  out  in  the  barn 
and  play  with  the  boys,  and  how  she  would 
help  her  mother  get  tea. 

When  school  was  done  and  Ruth  started  for 
home  the  rain  had  stopped  and  the  sun  was  shin 
ing.  The  rain -pools  in  the  road  glittered,  and 
she  noticed  a  cherry-tree  in  blossom.  When  she 
reached  home  Serena  met  her  at  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Ruth  Whitman !"  she  cried,  we  have  had 
such  a  time !" 

Ruth  stared.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  she. 
"  Where  are  the  Wigginses  ?" 

"They've  gone.  Mrs. Wiggins  and  old  Mrs. 
Wiggins  were  dreadful  mad.  Oh,  Ruth,  you 
didn't  do  it  on  purpose,  did  you  2" 

"Do  what  on  purpose?"  said  Ruth,  pushing 
into  the  house,  and  looking  around  the  empty 
kitchen  in  a  bewildered  way.  "I  don't  know 
what  you  mean." 

"  Don't  you  know  what  you  put  into  that  pars 
nip  stew  ?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  know  of  anything  I  put  in  but 
some  salt,  just  before  I  went  to  school ;  mother 
told  me  to.  Why  ?" 


184  A    PARSNIP    STEW 

"  Oh,  Ruth,  you  put  in — saleratus!" 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

Euth  flew  into  the  pantry,  and  came  out  with 
a  cracked  blue  cup.  "  Here,"  said  she — "  here's 
the  salt-cup,  and  this  is  the  one  I  got  it  out  of,  I 
know." 

"  Taste  of  it,"  said  Serena,  solemnly. 

Ruth  tasted.  "It  is  saleratus,"  said  she,  look 
ing  at  her  sister  in  horror.  "Did  it  spoil  the 
stew  ?" 

"It  was — dreadful." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  happened,"  Ruth  said, 
slowly,  puckering  her  forehead,  "  unless  mother 
dipped  out  some  saleratus  in  the  salt -cup  to 
bring  out  in  the  kitchen  when  she  mixed  the 
sour-milk  cakes  for  breakfast.  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it,  true  's  I  live  and  breathe.  I 
hope  they  didn't  think  I  did  such  a  mean  thing 
as  that  on  purpose." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  they  really  thought 
you  did,  but  you  know  you  did  kind  of  jerk 
round,  Ruth,  and  the  Wigginses  saw  it." 

"  What  did  they  say «" 

"  Well,"  said  Serena,  "  we  all  sat  down  to  the 
table,  and  mother  had  put  on  the  bread  and  ap 
ple  -  sauce  for  the  rest  of  us,  and  she  helped  the 
Wigginses  to  the  stew.  There  wasn't  more'n 
enough  to  go  around,  but  she  kept  the  cover  over 


A    PARSNIP    STEW  185 

the  dish  so  they  shouldn't  suspect,  and  all  the 
rest  of  us  said  we  wouldn't  take  any. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Wiggins  she  tasted,  and  old  Mrs. 
Wiggins  she  tasted.  Then  they  looked  at  moth 
er.  Mother  she  didn't  know  what  it  meant,  and 
she  kept  getting  redder  and  redder.  Finally  she 
spoke  up.  '  Is  there  anything  the  matter  with 
the  stew  ?'  says  she. 

"Then  Mrs.  Wiggins  she  pushed  over  her  plate 
for  mother  to  taste  of  the  stew,  and  the  first 
thing  we  knew  they  were  all  talking  at  once. 
Old  Mrs.  Wiggins  said  she'd  noticed  how  we 
acted  kind  of  stiff,  and  as  if  we  wasn't  glad  to 
see  them,  the  minute  she  come,  and  Mrs.  Wiggins 
said  she  had,  too,  and  she'd  seen  you  put  the  sal- 
eratus  into  the  stew,  and  she  thought  from  the 
way  you  switched  around  you  were  up  to  some 
thing.  Mother  she  tried  to  excuse  it  off,  but  they 
wouldn't  hear  a  word.  They  said  it  didn't  look 
very  likely  that  it  was  an  accident,  and  they 
noticed  none  of  us  took  any  of  it,  and  mother 
wouldn't  tell  them  the  reason  for  that.  So  they 
just  got  up  and  put  on  their  things,  and  Mr.  Wig 
gins  backed  out  the  horse,  and  they  went  home. 
Mother  asked  them  to  come  again,  and  she'd  try 
and  have  a  better  dinner,  but  they  said  they'd 
never  set  foot  in  the  house  again  if  they  knew  it." 

"Didn't  anybody  eat  the  stew 3" 


186  A    PARSNIP    STEW 

"Nobody  but  Sammy  Wiggins;  he  ate  his 
whole  plateful,  saleratus  and  all,  before  anybody 
spoke." 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Euth;  "I  suppose  mother 
feels  dreadfully.  "Where  is  she  ?" 

"  She's  gone  over  to  Lucy  Ann's  to  help  her 
take  care  of  the  baby;  he  was  real  sick  last 
night.  I  don't  believe  she'll  come  home  till 
after  supper.  She  felt  dreadful." 

"The  Wigginses  are  dreadful  touchy  folks, 
anyhow." 

"  Course  they  are.  It  don't  seem  as  if  any 
body  with  any  sense  would  get  mad  at  such  a 
thing.  But  they're  always  suspecting  folks  of 
meaning  something." 

Kuth  looked  sternly  reflective.  She  took  off 
her  thick  dingy  shawl,  and  got  from  its  peg  a 
bright  red  and  green  plaid  one  that  she  wore  in 
pleasant  weather. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Serena. 

"  I'm  going  over  to  the  Wigginses'." 

"What  for?" 

"I'm  going  to  ask  them  to  come  over  here  to- 
morrow  and  spend  the  day." 

"  Why,  Euth  Whitman,  ain't  you  afraid  to  ?" 

"  No,  I  ain't  afraid.  I'm  going  to  carry  over 
a  jar  of  the  honey — mother  '11  be  willing — and 
I'm  going  to  tell  Mrs.  Wiggins  just  how  it  was." 


A   PARSNIP   STEW  187 

"  She  won't  hear  a  word  you  say." 

"I'll  make  her  hear." 

"  They  won't  come  a  step." 

"  You  see." 

The  "Whitmans  kept  bees,  and  their  honey  was 
the  celebrated  luxury  of  the  neighborhood.  Ruth 
got  a  jar  of  clear  white  honey  out  of  the  closet, 
put  it  under  her  shawl,  and  was  off.  First, 
though,  she  instructed  Serena  to  go  out  in  the 
garden  and  dig  a  good  supply  of  parsnips  and 
clean  them  for  the  next  day's  dinner. 

It  was  a  mile  to  the  Wigginses',  and  it  took 
Ruth  over  an  hour  to  accomplish  her  errand  and 
return.  When  she  got  home  she  found  Serena 
getting  supper,  and  her  father  was  washing  his 
hands  out  in  the  shed ;  her  mother  had  not  re 
turned.  On  the  kitchen  sink  lay  a  tin  pan  with 
four  or  five  muddy  parsnips.  Serena  looked  up 
eagerly  when  her  sister  entered.  "They  com 
ing?"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  they  are,"  replied  Ruth,  with  a  trium 
phant  smile. 

But  Serena  walked  over  to  the  sink  and  ex 
tended  her  arm  with  a  tragical  gesture  towards 
the  parsnips.  "Well,  you've  gone  and  done  it 
now,  Ruth  Whitman,"  said  she.  "  There's  every 
single  parsnip  that's  fit  to  eat  that  I  could  find 
in  the  garden." 


188  A  PARSNIP   STEW 

"  H'm !  I  guess  I  can  find  some." 

"  No,  you  can't ;  they've  rotted.  I  heard  moth- 
er  say  to-day  she  was  afraid  they  had.  More'n 
half  those  father  brought  in  this  morning  weren't 
good  for  anything.  "When  mother  finds  out  that 
all  the  Wigginses  are  coming,  and  there's  just  five 
parsnips  for  dinner,  I  don't  know  what  she  will 
do ;  I  don't  know  but  it  will  kill  her.  And  she's 
asked  Uncle  Caleb  and  Uncle  Silas  over,  too." 

Ruth  gave  a  desperate  glance  at  the  parsnips. 
"I  said  we  were  going  to  have  parsnip  stew," 
said  sha  "Mrs.  Wiggins  had  been  crying;  she 
looked  dreadful  tired  out ;  and  Sammy  had  just 
bumped  his  head,  and  there  was  a  great  lump 
over  one  eye.  She  took  the  honey,  and  said 
she'd  be  real  happy  to  come  if  they  could  have 
the  horse,  and  old  Mrs.  Wiggins  acted  dreadful 
tickled." 

"  The  Wigginses  have  got  parsnips,"  said  Se 
rena.  "  I  heard  Mrs.  Wiggins  say  they'd  got  a 
splendid  lot,  she  expected,  but  they  hadn't  dug 
any  yet." 

Ruth  looked  at  her  sister.     "  Serena!" 

"What?" 

"  I'm  going  to  send  over  and  luy  some  of  the 
Wigginses^  parsnips" 

"  Ruth !"  But  it  seemed  to  Serena  as  if  there 
was  a  flash  of  red  and  green  light  through  the 


A   PARSNIP    STEW  189 

room,  and  Ruth  had  gone.  Serena  gave  a  little 
gasp,  and  stood  looking. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  her  father,  com 
ing  in  —  an  old  man  in  checkered  shirt  sleeves, 
yet  with  a  certain  rustic  stateliness  about  him. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Serena ;  and  she  fell  to 
slicing  the  bread  for  supper. 

"While  her  father  had  gone  to  the  well  to 
draw  a  pail  of  water  Ruth  came  in,  breathless, 
but  rosy  with  daring  and  triumph.  Ben  White, 
Mrs.  White's  grown-up  son,  was  going  to  drive 
over  to  the  Wigginses  and  buy  some  parsnips ; 
his  mother  was  to  have  some,  and  Ruth  a  noble 
portion  for  the  next  day's  stew. 

Serena  dropped  into  a  chair  and  giggled  fee 
bly;  the  humor  of  it  was  so  forcible  that  it 
seemed  to  fairly  rebound  in  her  face.  "  Ask  the 
Wigginses  to  dinner  to  have  a  parsnip  stew,  and 
then — buy  their  own  parsnips  for  it !"  she  gasped. 

Ruth  did  not  laugh  at  all;  she  saw  nothing 
but  the  seriousness  of  the  situation.  "  Mind  you 
don't  tell  mother  till  after  it's  all  over,"  said  she. 
"  I  don't  want  her  to  know  where  those  parsnips 
came  from  till  after  the  Wigginses  have  gone, 
she'll  be  so  upset.  I'm  just  going  to  tell  her 
how  I  carried  the  honey  over  there,  and  how 
they're  coming.  I  do  hope  Ben  will  bring  the 
parsnips  before  mother  gets  home," 


190  A   PAKSNIP    STEW 

"  Suppose  Ben  should  bring  'em  in  when  moth 
er  was  here,"  chuckled  Serena. 

"  I  told  him  to  shy  into  the  shed  with  'em," 
replied  Euth,  severely.  "Hush!  father's  com 
ing,  and  we'd  better  not  say  anything  to  him  till 
afterwards." 

Mrs.  Whitman  did  not  return  until  quite  late ; 
her  married  daughter  Lucy  Ann  and  her  teeth 
ing  baby  did  not  generally  release  her  in  very 
good  season.  When  she  came  into  the  kitchen 
she  found  a  great  pan  of  parsnips  all  washed 
and  scraped,  and  heard  the  news  how  the  Wig- 
ginses  were  over  their  ill-tempers  and  were  com 
ing  the  next  day.  Mrs.  Whitman  dropped  into 
a  chair,  her  large  mild  face  beamed,  and  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes.  "  Well,  I'm  dreadful  glad  if 
we  can  patch  it  up,"  said  she ;  "  I  never  had  any 
fuss  with  any  of  my  folks  before  in  the  world, 
and  I  hate  to  begin  now.  I've  always  thought 
a  good  deal  of  the  Wigginses."  And  her  mouth 
quivered. 

The  next  morning  a  parsnip  stew  of  noble  pro 
portions  was  prepared.  At  eleven  o'clock  the 
great  kettle,  full  to  the  rim,  hung  over  the  fire, 
and  the  room  was  cloudy  with  savory  steam. 
The  Wigginses  were  expected  every  minute. 
Uncles  Silas  and  Caleb  Whitman  could  be  seen 
from  the  kitchen  window  out  in  the  field  with 


A   PAESNIP   STEW  191 

their  brother  bending  over  the  plough  furrows, 
and  they  kept  righting  themselves  and  looking 
at  their  old  silver  watches.  At  half -past  eleven 
Mrs.  Whitman  and  Serena  began  to  think  it  was 
strange  that  the  Wigginses  did  not  come.  At 
quarter  of  twelve  there  was  a  little  stir  out  in 
the  yard,  and  they  ran  to  the  windows.  There 
was  Mr.  Wiggins  with  a  wheelbarrow  and  an 
empty  grain  sack  and  a  half -bushel  basket  of 
russet  apples  in  it. 

Mrs.  Whitman  and  Serena  stood  wonderingly 
in  the  door.  "Where's  the  folks?"  asked  Mrs. 
Whitman. 

Then  Mr.  Wiggins,  standing  by  the  wheelbar 
row,  explained  how  Hiram  Green  had  had  to 
use  the  horse  for  ploughing  up  in  the  six-acre 
lot,  how  he  had  promised  to  hire  it  to  him,  and 
his  wife  hadn't  known  it,  and  how  he  had  had 
to  go  to  the  store  for  grain  with  the  wheelbar 
row,  and  his  wrife  had  got  him  to  stop  and  tell 
Mis'  Whitman  she  was  dreadfully  sorry  it  hap 
pened  so,  but  she  didn't  see  how  they  could 
walk,  and  they  would  come  over  the  first  day 
they  could  have  the  horse ;  and  she  didn't  know 
but  what  Mis'  Whitman's  apples  had  give  out, 
so  she  sent  her  over  a  few  of  their  russets ;  they 
had  'most  two  barrels  left,  and  they  were  spoil 
ing  fast,  and  they  wanted  to  get  rid  of  them. 

12 


192  A   PARSNIP    STEW 

When  Euth  came  home  from  school  she  found 
an  immense  kettle  of  parsnip  stew,  her  father 
and  her  uncles  Silas  and  Caleb  again  forming  a 
pleasant  expectant  semicircle  before  the  fire,  but 
no  Wigginses.  To-day  the  stew  was  seasoned 
daintily,  and  salt  had  taken  the  place  of  salera- 
tus.  There  was  no  stint  as  to  quantity,  but  there 
were  not  enough  partakers.  Mrs.  Whitman  filled 
a  great  bowl  for  Lucy  Ann;  she  sent  a  dish 
over  to  the  Whites;  father  and  Caleb  and  Silas 
ate  manfully,  and  passed  their  plates  again  and 
again ;  Serena  and  Ruth  and  their  mother  ate  all 
they  could,  and  the  cat  had  her  fill;  but  the 
Whitmans,  with  all  their  allies,  could  not  eat 
their  own  share  and  that  of  the  Wigginses.  But 
the  stew  was  delicious,  and  as  the  family  ate, 
their  simple  homely  little  feud  was  healed,  and 
the  parsnip  stew  smoked  in  their  midst  like  a 
pipe  of  peace. 


THE  DICKEY  BOY 


"  I  SHOULD  think  it  was  about  time  for  him  to 
be  comin',"  said  Mrs.  Rose. 

"  So  should  I,"  assented  Miss  Elvira  Grayson. 
She  peered  around  the  corner  of  the  front  door. 
Her  face  was  thin  and  anxious,  and  her  voice 
was  so  like  it  that  it  was  unmistakably  her  own 
note.  One  would  as  soon  expect  a  crow  to  chick- 
a-dee  as  Miss  Elvira  to  talk  in  any  other  way. 
She  was  tall,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  dainty  an 
gularity  about  her  narrow  shoulders.  She  wore 
an  old  black  silk,  which  was  a  great  deal  of  dress 
for  afternoon.  She  had  considerable  money  in 
the  bank,  and  could  afford  to  dress  well.  She 
wore  also  some  white  lace  around  her  long  neck, 
and  it  was  fastened  with  a  handsome  gold-and- 
jet  brooch.  She  was  knitting  some  blue  worsted, 
and  she  sat  back  in  the  front  entry,  out  of  the 
draft.  She  considered  herself  rather  delicate. 

Mrs.  Eose  sat  boldly  out  in  the  yard  in  the  full 


194  THE    DICKEY    BOY 

range  of  the  breeze,  sewing  upon  a  blue-and- 
white  gingham  waist  for  her  son  Willy.  She 
was  a  large,  pretty -faced  woman  in  a  stiffly 
starched  purple  muslin,  which  spread  widely 
around  her. 

"  He's  been  gone  'most  an  hour,"  she  went  on ; 
"  I  hope  there's  nothin'  happened." 

"  I  wonder  if  there's  snakes  in  that  meadow  ?" 
ruminated  Miss  Elvira. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I'm  get  tin'  ruther  uneasy." 

"I  know  one  thing — I  shouldn't  let  him  go 
off  so,  without  somebody  older  with  him,  if  he 
was  my  boy." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do,"  returned 
Mrs.  Rose,  uneasily.  "  There  ain't  anybody  to 
go  with  him.  I  can't  go  diggin'  sassafras-root, 
and  you  can't,  and  his  uncle  Hiram's  too  busy, 
and  grandfather  is  too  stiff.  And  he  is  so  crazy 
to  go  after  sassafras-root,  it  does  seem  a  pity  to 
tell  him  he  sha'n't.  I  never  saw  a  child  so  pos 
sessed  after  the  root  and  sassafras-tea,  as  he  is, 
in  my  life.  I  s'pose  it's  good  for  him.  I  hate 
to  deny  him  when  he  takes  so  much  comfort 
goin'.  There  he  is  now  !" 

Little  Willy  Eose  crossed  the  road,  and  toiled 
up  the  stone  steps.  The  front  yard  was  terraced, 
and  two  flights  of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the  front 
door.  He  was  quite  breathless  when  he  stood 


THE    DICKEY    BOY  195 

on  the  top  step ;  his  round,  sweet  face  was  pink, 
his  fair  hair  plastered  in  flat  locks  to  his  wet 
forehead.  His  little  trousers  and  his  shoes  were 
muddy,  and  he  carried  a  great  scraggy  mass  of 
sassafras- roots.  "I  see  you  a-settin'  out  here," 
he  panted,  softly. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  stayed  so  long.  We 
began  to  be  worried  about  you,"  said  his  mother, 
in  a  fond  voice.  "  Now  go  and  take  your  muddy 
shoes  right  off,  and  put  on  your  slippers;  then 
you  can  sit  down  at  the  back  door  and  clean 
your  sassafras,  if  you  want  to." 

"  I  got  lots,"  said  "Willy,  smiling  sweetly,  and 
wiping  his  forehead.  "  Look-a-there,  Miss  El- 
viry." 

"  So  you  did,"  returned  Miss  Elvira.  "  I  sup 
pose,  now,  you  think  you'll  have  some  sassafras- 
tea." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  I  guess  I'll  steep  him  a  little  for  supper,  he's 
so  crazy  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Eose,  when  Willy  had 
disappeared  smilingly  around  the  corner. 

"  Yes,  I  would.  It's  real  wholesome  for  him. 
Who's  that  comin'  F 

Mrs.  Kose  stared  down  at  the  road.  A  white 
horse  with  an  open  buggy  was  just  turning  into 
the  drive-way,  around  the  south  side  of  the  ter 
races.  "Why,  it's  brother  Hiram,"  said  she, 


196  THE    DICKEY    BOY 

"  and  he's  got  a  boy  with  him.  I  wonder  who 
'tis." 

The  buggy  drew  up  with  a  grating  noise  in 
the  drive-way.  Presently  a  man  appeared  around 
the  corner.  After  him  tagged  a  small  white- 
headed  boy,  and  after  the  boy,  Willy  Eose,  with 
a  sassafras -root  and  an  old  shoe -knife  in  his 
hands. 

The  man,  who  was  Mr.  Hiram  Fairbanks,  Mrs. 
Rose's  brother,  had  a  somewhat  doubtful  ex 
pression.  When  he  stopped,  the  white  -  headed 
boy  stopped,  keeping  a  little  behind  him  in  his 
shadow. 

"What  boy  is  that,  Hiram?''  asked  Mrs.  Eose. 
Miss  Elvira  peered  around  the  door.  Mr.  Fair 
banks  was  tall  and  stiff -looking.  He  had  a  sun 
burned,  sober  face.  "  His  name  is  Dickey,"  he 
replied. 

"One  of  those  Dickeys?"  Mrs.  Eose  said 
"  Dickeys,"  as  if  it  were  a  synonym  for  "  out 
casts  "  or  "  rascals." 

Mr.  Fairbanks  nodded.  He  glanced  at  the 
boy  in  his  wake,  then  at  Willy.  "  Willy,  s'pose 
you  take  this  little  boy  'round  and  show  him 
your  rabbits,"  he  said,  in  an  embarrassed  voice. 

"  Willy  Eose !"  cried  his  mother,  "  you  haven't 
changed  those  muddy  shoes !  Go  right  in  this 
minute,  'round  by  the  kitchen  door,  and  take  this 


THE    DICKEY    BOY  197 

boy  'round  with  you;  he  can  sit  down  on  the 
door-step  and  help  you  clean  your  sassafras-root." 

"Willy  disappeared  lingeringly  around  the 
house,  and  the  other  boy,  on  being  further  bid 
den  by  Mr.  Fairbanks,  followed  him.  "  Willy," 
his  mother  cried  after  him,  "  mind  you  sit  down 
on  the  door-step  and  tie  your  shoes!  I  ain't 
goin'  to  have  that  Dickey  boy  left  alone;  his 
folks  are  nothin'  but  a  pack  of  thieves,"  she  re 
marked  in  a  lower  tone.  "  What  are  you  doing 
with  him,  Hiram  ?" 

Hiram  hesitated.  "Well,  'Mandy,  you  was 
sayin'  the  other  day  that  you  wished  you  had  a 
boy  to  run  errands,  and  split  up  kindlin's,  and  be 
kind  of  company  for  Willy." 

"  You  ain't  brought  that  Dickey  boy  ?" 

"  Now,  look  here,  'Mandy — " 

"  I  ain't  going  to  have  him  in  the  house." 

"  Jest  look  here  a  minute,  'Mandy,  till  I  tell 
you  how  it  happened,  and  then  you  can  do  jest 
as  you're  a  mind  to  about  it.  I  was  up  by  the 
Ruggles's  this  afternoon,  and  Mis'  Ruggles,  she 
come  out  to  the  gate,  and  hailed  me.  She  want 
ed  to  know  if  I  didn't  want  a  boy.  Seems  the 
Dickey  woman  died  last  week;  you  know  the 
father  died  two  year  ago.  Well,  there  was  six 
children,  and  the  oldest  boy  's  skipped,  nobody 
knows  where,  and  the  oldest  girl  has  just  got 


198  THE    DICKEY    BOY 

married,  and  this  boy  is  the  oldest  of  the  four 
that's  left.  They  took  the  three  little  ones  to 
the  poorhouse,  and  Mis'  Ruggles  she  took  this 
boy  in,  and  she  wanted  to  keep  him,  but  her  own 
boy  is  big  enough  to  do  all  the  chores,  and  she 
didn't  feel  as  if  she  could  afford  to.  She  says 
he's  a  real  nice  little  fellow,  and  his  mother 
wa'n't  a  bad  woman ;  she  was  jest  kind  of  sickly 
and  shiftless.  I  gue'ss  old  Dickey  wa'n't  much, 
but  he's  dead.  Mis'  Ruggles  says  this  little  chap 
hates  awful  to  go  to  the  poorhouse,  and  it  ain't 
no  kind  of  risk  to  take  him,  and  she'd  ought  to 
know.  She's  lived  right  there  next  door  to  the 
Dickeys  ever  since  she  was  married.  I  knew 
you  wanted  a  boy  to  do  chores  'round,  long  as 
Willy  wasn't  strong  enough,  so  I  thought  I'd  fetch 
him  along.  But  you  can  do  jest  as  you're  a  mind 
to." 

"  Now,  Hiram  Fairbanks,  you  know  the  name 
those  Dickeys  have  always  had.  S'pose  I  took 
that  boy,  and  he  stole?" 

"  Mis'  Euggles  says  she'd  trust  him  with  any 
thing." 

"  She  ain't  got  so  much  as  I  have  to  lose. 
There  I've  got  two  dozen  solid  silver  teaspoons, 
and  four  table-spoons,  and  my  mother's  silver 
creamer,  and  Willy's  silver  napkin-ring.  Elviry's 
got  her  gold  watch,  too." 


THE   DICKEY   BOY  199 

"  I've  got  other  things  I  wouldn't  lose  for  any 
thing,"  chimed  in  Miss  Elvira. 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  don't  want  you  to  lose  any 
thing,"  said  Mr.  Fairbanks,  helplessly,  "  but  Mis' 
Ruggles,  she  said  he  was  perfectly  safe." 

"  I  s'pose  I  could  lock  up  the  silver  spoons  and 
use  the  old  pewter  ones,  and  Elviry  could  keep 
her  watch  out  of  sight  for  a  while,"  ruminated 
Mrs.  Eose. 

"  Yes,  I  could,"  assented  Miss  Elvira,  "  and  my 
breastpin." 

"  I  s'pose  he  could  draw  the  water,  and  split 
up  the  kindlin'-wood,  and  weed  the  flower-gar 
den,"  said  Mrs.  Rose.  "  I  set  "Willy  to  weedin' 
this  morning,  and  it  gave  him  the  headache.  I 
tell  you  one  thing,  Hiram  Fairbanks,  if  I  do  take 
this  boy,  you've  got  to  stand  ready  to  take  him 
back  again  the  first  minute  I  see  anything  out  of 
the  way  with  him." 

"  Yes,  I  will,  'Mandy ;  I  promise  you  I  will," 
said  Mr.  Fairbanks,  eagerly.  He  hurried  out  to 
the  buggy,  and  fumbled  under  the  seat ;  then  he 
returned  with  a  bundle  and  a  small  wooden  box. 

"Here's  his  clothes.  I  guess  he  ain't  got 
much,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Rose  took  the  newspaper  bundle ;  then 
she  eyed  the  box  suspiciously.  It  was  a  wooden 
salt-box,  and  the  sliding  cover  was  nailed  on. 


200  THE   DICKEY   BOY 

"  What's  in  this  ?"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Fairbanks ; 
"some  truck  or  other — I  guess  it  ain't  worth 
much." 

He  put  the  box  down  on  the  bank,  and  trudged 
heavily  and  quickly  out  to  the  buggy.  He  was 
anxious  to  be  off ;  he  shook  the  reins,  shouted 
"ge  lang"  to  the  white  horse,  and  wheeled 
swiftly  around  the  corner. 

11  I'd  like  to  know  what's  in  that  box,"  said 
Mrs.  Rose  to  Miss  Elvira. 

"  I  hope  he  ain't  got  an  old  pistol  or  anything 
of  that  kind  in  it,"  returned  Miss  Elvira.  "  Oh, 
'Mandy,  I  wouldn't  shake  it,  if  I  were  you !" 
For  Mrs.  Eose  was  shaking  the  wooden  box,  and 
listening  with  her  ear  at  it. 

"  Something  rattles  in  it,"  said  she,  desisting ; 
"I  hope  it  ain't  a  pistol."  Then  she  entered 
with  the  newspaper  bundle  and  the  box,  and 
went  through  the  house,  with  Miss  Elvira  follow 
ing.  She  set  the  bundle  and  box  on  the  kitchen 
table,  and  looked  out  of  the  door.  There  on  the 
top  step  sat  the  Dickey  boy  cleaning  the  sassa 
fras-roots  with  great  industry,  while  Willy  Rose 
sat  on  the  lower  one  chewing  some. 

"I  do  believe  he's  goin'  to  take  right  hold, 
Elviry,"  whispered  Mrs.  Rose. 

"  Well,  maybe  he  is,"  returned  Miss  Elvira. 


THE    DICKEY    BOY  201 

Mrs.  Rose  stowed  away  the  boy's  belongings 
in  the  little  bedroom  off  the  kitchen  where  she 
meant  him  to  sleep ;  then  she  kindled  the  fire 
and  got  supper.  She  made  sassafras-tea,  and  the 
new  boy,  sitting  beside  Willy,  had  a  cup  poured 
for  him.  But  he  did  not  drink  much  nor  eat 
much,  although  there  were  hot  biscuits  and  ber 
ries  and  custards.  He  hung  his  forlorn  head 
with  its  shock  of  white  hair,  and  only  gave  fleet 
ing  glances  at  anything  with  his  wild,  blue  eyes. 
He  was  a  thin  boy,  smaller  than  Willy,  but  he 
looked  wiry  and  full  of  motion,  like  a  wild  rabbit. 

After  supper  Mrs.  Rose  sent  him  for  a  pail  of 
water;  then  he  split  up  a  little  pile  of  kindling- 
wood.  After  that  he  sat  down  on  the  kitchen 
door-step  in  the  soft  twilight,  and  was  silent. 

Willy  went  into  the  sitting-room,  where  his 
mother  and  Miss  Elvira  were.  "  He's  settin'  out 
there  on  the  door-step,  not  speakin'  a  word,"  said 
he,  in  a  confidential  whisper. 

"  Well,  you  had  better  sit  down  here  with  us 
and  read  your  Sunday-school  book,"  said  his 
mother.  She  and  Miss  Elvira  had  agreed  that 
it  was  wiser  that  Willy  should  not  be  too  much 
with  the  Dickey  boy  until  they  knew  him  better. 

When  it  was  nine  o'clock  Mrs.  Rose  showed 
the  Dickey  boy  his  bedroom.  She  looked  at  him 
sharply ;  his  small  pale  face  showed  red  stains 


THE   DICKEY    BOY 


in  the  lamplight.  She  thought  to  herself  that 
he  had  been  crying,  and  she  spoke  to  him  as 
kindly  as  she  could — she  had  not  a  caressing 
manner  with  anybody  but  Willy.  "I  guess 
there's  clothes  enough  on  the  bed,"  said  she.  She 
looked  curiously  at  the  bundle  and  the  wooden 
box.  Then  she  unfastened  the  bundle.  "  I  guess 
I'll  see  what  you've  got  for  clothes,"  said  she, 
and  her  tone  was  as  motherly  as  she  could  make 
it  towards  this  outcast  Dickey  boy.  She  laid  out 
his  pitiful  little  wardrobe,  and  examined  the 
small  ragged  shirt  or  two  and  the  fragmentary 
stockings.  "I  guess  I  shall  have  to  buy  you 
some  things  if  you  are  a  good  boy,"  said  she. 
"What  have  you  got  in  that  box?" — the  boy 
hung  his  head  —  "I  hope  you  ain't  got  a  pis 
tol?" 

"  No,  marm." 

"  You  ain't  got  any  powder,  nor  anything  of 
that  kind?" 

"No,  marm."  The  boy  was  blushing  con 
fusedly. 

"I  hope  you're  tellin'  me  the  truth,"  Mrs. 
Eose  said,  and  her  tone  was  full  of  severe  ad 
monition. 

"Yes,  marm."  The  tears  rolled  down  the 
boy's  cheeks,  and  Mrs.  Kose  said  no  more.  She 
told  him  she  would  call  him  in  the  morning,  and 


THE    DICKEY    BOY  203 

to  be  careful  about  his  lamp.  Then  she  left  him. 
The  Dickey  boy  lay  awake,  and  cried  an  hour; 
then  he  went  to  sleep,  and  slept  as  soundly  as 
Willy  Rose  in  his  snug  little  bedroom  leading 
out  of  his  mother's  room.  Miss  Elvira  and  Mrs. 
Rose  locked  their  doors  that  night,  through  dis 
trust  of  that  little  boy  down-stairs  who  came 
of  a  thieving  family.  Miss  Elvira  put  her  gold 
watch  and  her  breastpin  and  her  pocket-book, 
with  seventeen  dollars  in  it,  under  the  feather 
bed  ;  and  Mrs.  Rose  carried  the  silver  teaspoons 
up-stairs,  and  hid  them  under  hers.  The  Dickey 
boy  was  not  supposed  to  know  they  were  in  the 
house — the  pewter  ones  had  been  used  for  sup 
per — but  that  did  not  signify;  she  thought  it 
best  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  She  kept  the  silver 
spoons  under  the  feather-bed  for  many  a  day, 
and  they  all  ate  with  the  pewter  ones ;  but 
finally  suspicion  was  allayed  if  not  destroyed. 
The  Dickey  boy  had  shown  himself  trustworthy 
in  several  instances.  Once  he  was  sent  on  a  test 
errand  to  the  store,  and  came  home  promptly 
with  the  right  change.  The  silver  spoons  glit 
tered  in  the  spoon-holder  on  the  table,  and  Miss 
Elvira  wore  her  gold  watch  and  her  gold  breast 
pin. 

"  I  begin  to  take  a  good  deal  more  stock  in 
that  boy,"  Mrs.  Rose  told  her  brother  Hiram. 


204  THE    DICKEY    EOT 

"  He  ain't  very  lively,  but  he  works  real  smart ; 
he  ain't  saucy,  and  I  ain't  known  of  his  lay  in' 
hands  on  a  thing." 

But  the  Dickey  boy,  although  he  had  won 
some  confidence  and  good  opinions,  was,  as  Mrs. 
Rose  said,  not  very  lively.  His  face,  as  he  did 
his  little  tasks,  was  as  sober  and  serious  as  an 
old  man's.  Everybody  was  kind  to  him,  but  this 
poor  little  alien  felt  like  a  chimney-sweep  in  a 
queen's  palace.  Mrs.  Rose,  to  a  Dickey  boy,  was 
almost  as  impressive  as  a  queen.  He  watched 
with  admiration  and  awe  this  handsome,  ener 
getic  woman  moving  about  the  house  in  her  wide 
skirts.  He  was  overcome  with  the  magnificence 
of  Miss  Elvira's  afternoon  silk,  and  gold  watch ; 
and  dainty  little  Willy  Rose  seemed  to  him  like 
a  small  prince.  Either  the  Dickey  boy,  born  in 
a  republican  country,  had  the  original  instincts 
of  the  peasantry  in  him,  and  himself  defined  his 
place  so  clearly  that  it  made  him  unhappy,  or 
his  patrons  did  it  for  him.  Mrs.  Rose  and  Miss 
Elvira  tried  to  treat  him  as  well  as  they  treated 
Willy.  They  dressed  him  in  Willy's  old  clothes ; 
they  gave  him  just  as  much  to  eat ;  when  autumn 
came  he  was  sent  to  school  as  warmly  clad  and 
as  well  provided  with  luncheon ;  but  they  could 
never  forget  that  he  was  a  Dickey  boy.  He 
seemed,  in  truth,  to  them  like  an  animal  of  anoth- 


THE    DICKEY    BOY  205 

er  species,  in  spite  of  all  they  could  do,  and  they 
regarded  his  virtues  in  the  light  of  uncertain 
tricks.  Mrs.  "Rose  never  thought  at  any  time  of 
leaving  him  in  the  house  alone  without  hiding 
the  spoons,  and  Miss  Elvira  never  left  her  gold 
watch  unguarded. 

Nobody  knew  whether  the  Dickey  boy  was 
aware  of  these  lurking  suspicions  or  not ;  he  was 
so  subdued  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  how 
much  he  observed.  Nobody  knew  how  home 
sick  he  was,  but  he  went  about  every  day  full  of 
fierce  hunger  for  his  miserable  old  home.  Miser 
able  as  it  had  been,  there  had  been  in  it  a  certain 
element  of  shiftless  ease  and  happiness.  The 
Dickey  boy's  sickly  mother  had  never  chided 
him ;  she  had  not  cared  if  he  tracked  mud  into 
the  house.  How  anxiously  he  scraped  his  feet 
before  entering  the  Rose  kitchen.  The  Dickey 
boy's  dissipated  father  had  been  gentle  and 
maudlin,  but  never  violent.  All  the  Dickey 
children  had  done  as  they  chose,  and  they  had 
agreed  well.  They  were  not  a  quarrelsome  fam 
ily.  Their  principal  faults  were  idleness  and  a 
general  laxity  of  morals  which  was  quite  remov 
ed  from  active  wickedness.  "All  the  Dickeys 
needed  was  to  be  bolstered  up,"  one  woman  in 
the  village  said ;  and  the  Dickey  boy  was  being 
bolstered  up  in  the  Eose  family. 


206  THE    DIOKEY   BOY 

They  called  him  Dickey,  using  his  last  name 
for  his  first,  which  was  Willy.  Mrs.  Rose  straight 
ened  herself  unconsciously  when  she  found  that 
out.  "  We  can't  have  two  Willies  in  the  family, 
anyhow,"  said  she;  "we'll  have  to  call  you 
Dickey." 

Once  the  Dickey  boy's  married  sister  came  to 
see  him,  and  Mrs.  Eose  treated  her  with  such  stiff 
politeness  that  the  girl,  who  was  fair  and  pretty 
and  gaudily  dressed,  told  her  husband  when  she 
got  home  that  she  would  never  go  into  that 
woman's  house  again.  Occasionally  Mrs.  Rose, 
who  felt  a  duty  in  the  matter,  took  Dickey  to 
visit  his  little  brothers  and  sisters  at  the  alms- 
house.  She  even  bought  some  peppermint-candy 
for  him  to  take  them.  He  really  had  many  a 
little  extra  kindness  shown  him ;  sometimes  Miss 
Elvira  gave  him  a  penny,  and  once  Mr.  Hiram 
Fairbanks  gave  him  a  sweet-apple  tree — that  was 
really  quite  a  magnificent  gift.  Mrs.  Rose  could 
hardly  believe  it  when  Willy  told  her.  "  Well, 
I  must  say  I  never  thought  Hiram  would  do 
such  a  thing  as  that,  close  as  he  is,"  said  she.  "  I 
was  terribly  taken  aback  when  he  gave  that  tree 
to  Willy,  but  this  beats  all.  Why,  odd  years  it 
might  bring  in  twenty  dollars  !'* 

"  Uncle  Hiram  gave  it  to  him,"  Willy  repeated. 
"I  was  a-showin'  Dickey  my  apple-tree,  and 


THE   DICKEY   BOY  207 

Uncle  Hiram  he  picked  out  another  one,  and  he 
give  it  to  him." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it,''  said  Mrs. 
Eose. 

Nobody  else  would  have  believed  that  Hiram 
Fairbanks,  careful  old  bachelor  that  he  was, 
would  have  been  so  touched  by  the  Dickey 
boy's  innocent,  wistful  face  staring  up  at  the 
boughs  of  Willy's  apple-tree.  It  was  fall,  and 
the  apples  had  all  been  harvested.  Dickey 
would  get  no  practical  benefit  from  his  tree 
until  next  season,  but  there  was  no  calculating 
the  comfort  he  took  with  it  from  the'  minute  it 
came  into  his  possession.  Every  minute  he 
could  get,  at  first,  he  hurried  off  to  the  orchard 
and  sat  down  under  its  boughs.  He  felt  as  if 
he  were  literally  under  his  own  roof -tree.  In 
the  winter,  when  it  was  heavy  with  snow,  he 
did  not  forsake  it.  There  would  be  a  circle  of 
little  tracks  around  the  trunk. 

Mrs.  Eose  told  her  brother  that  the  boy  was 
perfectly  crazy  about  that  apple-tree,  and  Hiram 
grinned  shamefacedly. 

All  winter  Dickey  went  with  Willy  to  the  dis 
trict  school,  and  split  wood  and  brought  water 
between  times.  Sometimes  of  an  evening  he 
sat  soberly  down  with  Willy  and  played  check 
ers,  but  Willy  always  won.  "He  don't  try  to 

13 


208  THE   DICKEY   BOY 

beat,"  Willy  said.  Sometimes  they  had  pop 
corn,  and  Dickey  always  shook  the  popper. 
Dickey  said  he  wasn't  tired,  if  they  asked  him. 
All  winter  the  silver  spoons  appeared  on  the 
table,  and  Dickey  was  treated  with  a  fair  show 
of  confidence.  It  was  not  until  spring  that  the 
sleeping  suspicion  of  him  awoke.  Then  one  day 
Mrs.  Kose  counted  her  silver  spoons,  and  found 
only  twenty -three  teaspoons.  She  stood  at  her 
kitchen  table,  and  counted  them  over  and  over. 
Then  she  opened  the  kitchen  door.  "  Elviry !" 
she  called  out,  " Elviry,  come  here  a  minute! 
Look  here,"  she  said,  in  a  hushed  voice,  when 
Miss  Elvira's  inquiring  face  had  appeared  at  the 
door.  Miss  Elvira  approached  the  table  trem 
blingly. 

"  Count  those  spoons,"  said  Mrs.  Eose. 

Miss  Elvira's  long  slim  fingers  handled  the 
jingling  spoons.  "  There  ain't  but  twenty-three," 
she  said  finally,  in  a  scared  voice. 

"I  expected  it,"  said  Mrs.  Kose.  "Do  you 
s'pose  he  took  it  ?" 

"  Who  else  took  it,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

It  was  a  beautiful  May  morning;  the  apple- 
trees  were  all  in  blossom.  The  Dickey  boy  had 
stolen  over  to  look  at  his.  It  was  a  round  hill 
of  pink-and-white  bloom.  It  was  the  apple  year. 
Willy  came  to  the  stone  wall  and  called  him. 


THE   DICKEY   BOY  209 

"  Dickey,"  he  cried,  "  Mother  wants  you ;"  and 
Dickey  obeyed.  Willy  had  run  on  ahead.  He 
found  Mrs.  Rose,  Miss  Elvira,  Willy,  and  the 
twenty -three  teaspoons  awaiting  him  in  the 
kitchen.  He  shook  his  head  to  every  question 
they  asked  him  about  the  missing  spoon.  He 
turned  quite  pale ;  once  in  a  while  he  whimper 
ed  ;  the  tears  streamed  down  his  cheeks,  but  he 
only  shook  his  head  in  that  mute  denial. 

"  It  won't  make  it  any  easier  for  you,  holding 
out  this  way,"  said  Mrs.  Rose,  harshly.  "  Stop 
cryin'  and  go  out  and  split  up  some  kindlin'- 
wood." 

Dickey  went  out,  his  little  convulsed  form 
bent  almost  double.  Willy,  staring  at  him  with 
his  great,  wondering  blue  eyes,  stood  aside  to 
let  him  pass.  Then  he  also  was  sent  on  an 
errand,  while  his  mother  and  Miss  Elvira  had  a 
long  consultation  in  the  kitchen. 

It  was  a  half -hour  before  Mrs.  Rose  went  out 
to  the  shed  where  she  had  sent  the  Dickey  boy 
to  split  kindlings.  There  lay  a  nice  little  pile  of 
kindlings,  but  the  boy  had  disappeared. 

"Dickey,  Dickey!"  she  called.  But  he  did 
not  come. 

"I  guess  he's  gone,  spoon  and  all,"  she  told 
Miss  Elvira,  when  she  went  in ;  but  she  did  not 
really  think  be  had.  When  one  came  to  think 


210  THE   DICKEY   BOY 

of  it,  he  was  really  too  small  and  timid  a  boy  to 
run  away  with  one  silver  spoon.  It  did  not  seem 
reasonable.  What  they  did  think,  as  time  went 
on  and  he  did  not  appear,  was  that  he  was  hid 
ing  to  escape  a  whipping.  They  searched  ev 
erywhere.  Miss  Elvira  stood  in  the  shed  by  the 
wood-pile,  calling  in  her  thin  voice,  "  Come  out, 
Dickey ;  we  won't  whip  you  if  you  did  take  it," 
but  there  was  not  a  stir. 

Towards  night  they  grew  uneasy.  Mr.  Fair 
banks  came,  and  they  talked  matters  over. 

"Maybe  he  didn't  take  the  spoon,5'  said  Mr. 
Fairbanks,  uncomfortably.  "Anyhow,  he's  too 
young  a  chap  to  be  set  adrift  this  way.  I  wish 
you'd  let  me  talk  to  him,  'Mandy." 

"  You  /"  said  Mrs.  Eose.  Then  she  started  up. 
"  I  know  one  thing,"  said  she ;  "  I'm  goin'  to  see 
what's  in  that  wooden  box.  I  don't  believe  but 
what  that  spoon's  in  there.  There's  no  knowin' 
how  long  it's  been  gone." 

It  was  quite  a  while  before  Mrs.  Eose  re 
turned  with  the  wooden  box.  She  had  to  search 
for  it,  and  found  it  under  the  bed.  The  Dickey 
boy  also  had  hidden  his  treasures.  She  got  the 
hammer  and  Hiram  pried  off  the  lid,  which  was 
quite  securely  nailed.  "  I'd  ought  to  have  had  it 
opened  before,"  said  she.  "  He  hadn't  no  busi 
ness  to  have  a  nailed-up  box  'round.  Don't  jog- 


THERE,    AMONG   THE  BLOSSOMING  BRANCHES,  CLUNG   THE 
DICKEY   BOY." 


THE   DICKEY   BOY  213 

gle  it  so,  Hiram.  There's  no  knowin'  what's  in 
it.  There  may  be  a  pistol." 

Miss  Elvira  stood  farther  off.  Mr.  Fairbanks 
took  the  lid  entirely  off.  They  all  peered  into 
the  box.  There  lay  an  old  clay  pipe  and  a  roll 
of  faded  calico.  Mr.  Fairbanks  took  up  the  roll 
and  shook  it  out.  "It's  an  apron,"  said  he.  "  It's 
his  father's  pipe,  and  his  mother's  apron — I  — 
swan !" 

Miss  Elvira  began  to  cry.  "  I  hadn't  any  idea 
of  anything  of  that  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Rose,  huski 
ly.  "  Willy  Hose,  what  have  you  got  there  ?" 

For  Willy,  looking  quite  pale  and  guilty,  was 
coming  in,  holding  a  muddy  silver  teaspoon. 
"  Where  did  you  get  that  spoon  ?  Answer  me 
this  minute"  cried  his  mother. 

"I — took  it  out  to — dig  in  my  garden  with 
the — other  day.  I — forgot — " 

"Oh,  you  naughty  boy!"  cried  his  mother. 
Then  she,  too,  began  to  weep.  Mr.  Fairbanks 
started  up.  "  Something 's  got  to  be  done,"  said 
he.  "  The  wind 's  changed,  and  the  May  storm 
is  comin'  on.  That  boy  has  got  to  be  found  be 
fore  night." 

But  all  Mr.  Fairbanks's  efforts,  and  the  neigh 
bors'  who  came  to  his  assistance,  could  not  find 
the  Dickey  boy  before  night  or  before  the  next 
morning.  The  long,  cold  May  storm  began,  the 


214  THE    DICKEY    BOY 

flowering  apple-trees  bent  under  it,  and  the  wind 
drove  the  rain  against  the  windows.  Mrs.  Rose 
and  Miss  Elvira  kept  the  kitchen  fire  all  night, 
and  hot  water  and  blankets  ready.  But  the  day 
had  fairly  dawned  before  they  found  the  Dickey 
boy,  and  then  only  by  the  merest  chance.  Mr. 
Fairbanks,  hurrying  across  his  orchard  for  a 
short  cut,  and  passing  Dickey's  tree,  happened 
to  glance  up  at  it,  with  a  sharp  pang  of  memory. 
He  stopped  short.  There,  among  the  blossoming 
branches,  clung  the  Dickey  boy,  like  a  little 
drenched,  storm-beaten  bird.  He  had  flown  to 
his  one  solitary  possession  for  a  refuge.  He  was 
almost  exhausted;  his  little  hands  grasped  a 
branch  like  steel  claws.  Mr.  Fairbanks  took  him 
down  and  carried  him  home.  "  He  was  up  in 
his  tree,"  he  told  his  sister,  brokenly,  when  he 
entered  the  kitchen.  "  He's  'most  gone." 

But  the  Dickey  boy  revived  after  he  had  lain 
a  while  before  a  fire  and  been  rolled  in  hot  blank 
ets  and  swallowed  some  hot  drink.  He  looked 
with  a  wondering  smile  at  Mrs.  Rose  when  she 
bent  over  him  and  kissed  him  just  as  she  kissed 
Willy.  Miss  Elvira  loosened  her  gold  watch, 
with  its  splendid,  long  gold  chain,  and  put  it  in 
his  hand.  "There,  hold  it  a  while,"  said  she, 
"  and  listen  to  it  tick."  Mr.  Fairbanks  fumbled 
in  his  pocket-book  and  drew  out  a  great  silver 


THE    DICKEY    BOY 


215 


dollar.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  you  can  have  that  to 
spend  when  you  get  well." 

Willy  pulled  his  mother's  skirt.  "Mother," 
he  whispered. 

«  What  say  ?" 

"  Can't  I  pop  some  corn  for  him  ?" 

"  By-and-by."  Mrs.  Kose  smoothed  the  Dickey 
boy's  hair ;  then  she  bent  down  and  kissed  him 
again.  She  had  fairly  made  room  for  him  in  her 
stanch,  narrow  New  England  heart. 


A  SWEET -GKASS  BASKET 


NANCY  and  Flora  were  going  through  the  gar 
den,  stepping  between  the  squash  and  tomato 
vines.  Nancy's  mother  stood  in  the  kitchen  door 
looking  after  them. 

"Mind  you  don't  hit  your  clothes  on  the  to 
matoes  I"  she  called  out. 

"No,  we  won't,"  they  answered  back.  After 
they  had  passed  the  last  bean  pole  they  walked 
single  file  along  the  foot-path  down  the  hill. 
The  tall  timothy-grass  rustled  up  almost  to  their 
waists.  Flora  went  first,  with  a  light  little  tilt 
of  her  starched  skirts.  Nancy  trudged  briskly 
and  sturdily  after.  Nancy's  old  buff  calico  dress, 
which  had  been  let  down  for  her  every  spring 
since  she  was  seven  years  old,  and  marked  its 
age,  like  a  tree,  by  rings  of  a  brighter  color  where 
the  old  tucks  had  been,  did  not  look  very  well 
beside  Flora's  pretty  new  blue  cambric.  Neither 
did  Nancy's  old  Shaker  bonnet  show  to  advan- 


A   SWEET- GRASS   BASKET  217 

tage  beside  Flora's  hat,  with  its  beautiful  bows 
and  streamers;  but  ISTancy  was  not  troubled 
about  that.  She  cared  very  little  what  she  wore, 
so  long  as  she  went  somewhere.  Flora  always 
had  nicer  things,  but  she  never  minded.  Flora 
was  her  cousin ;  she  had  come  to  live  with  her 
when  her  mother  died,  ten  years  before,  and  her 
father  had  considerable  money.  He  lived  in  the 
city. 

The  two  girls  were  nearly  the  same  age,  but 
Nancy  was  much  the  larger ;  she  looked  clumsy 
and  overgrown  following  slender  little  Flora. 
It  was  like  a  dandelion  in  the  wake  of  a  violet. 
After  they  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill,  they 
crossed  some  low  meadow-land.  It  was  quite 
wet,  little  dark  pools  glimmered  between  the 
clumps  of  rank  grasses.  Some  fine  pink  orchid 
flowers  were  very  thick,  but  they  did  not  stop  to 
pick  any.  They  were  going  to  see  the  Indians. 
Their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  some  white  tents 
ahead.  They  had  been  there  once  before  with 
Nancy's  father,  but  the  same  sensations  of  curi 
osity  and  exhilarating  fear  were  upon  them  now. 

"  Nancy,"  whispered  Flora,  fearfully. 

"What  say?" 

"  Is  that  a — tomahawk  in  that  tent  door  P 

"  No ;  it's  a  hoe,"  returned  Nancy,  peering  with 
anxious  eyes. 


218  A  SWEET  -GRASS   BASKET 

Several  Indian  women  and  children  were  mov 
ing  about ;  one  Indian  man  was  scraping  some 
birch  bark  at  a  tent  door.  They  did  not  pay 
any  attention  to  the  visitors. 

Flora  nudged  Nancy.    "  Go  along,"  said  she. 

"  No,  you,"  returned  Nancy,  pushing  Flora. 

"I  don't  dare  to." 

They  stood  hesitating.  Finally  Nancy  gave 
her  head  a  jerk.  "  I  don't  care ;  I'm  going,  if 
you  ain't,"  said  she,  and  forward  she  went.  Flora 
followed. 

The  tents  were  arranged  like  houses  on  a 
street,  with  the  open  doors  fronting  each  other. 
In  each  tent  was  a  counter  loaded  with  baskets 
and  little  birch-bark  canoes,  and  an  Indian  woman 
sat  behind  it  to  sell  them. 

The  girls  went  from  one  tent  to  another  and 
stared  about  them.  Besides  the  baskets  and 
canoes,  there  were  sea-gulls'  wings  and  little  fur 
slippers  and  pouches.  They  saw  everything. 
The  Indian  women  offered  to  sell,  but  they  shook 
their  heads  shyly  and  soberly. 

Finally  they  went  into  the  tent  where  the 
Princess  kept  store.  She  was  a  large  stout  wo 
man  and  a  real  Indian  Princess.  Under  the 
counter  a  little  Indian  baby,  fast  asleep,  was 
swinging  in  a  tiny  hammock.  Nancy  and  Flora 
nudged  each  other  and  eyed  it  with  awe.  But 


A    SWEET -GRASS    BASKET  219 

it  was  on  the  Princess's  counter  that  they  saw 
the  sweet-grass  basket.  They  both  looked  at  it, 
then  at  each  other.  It  was  made  of  sweet-grass, 
it  was  oblong,  and  had  a  cover  and  long  handles. 

Finally  Flora  pointed  one  slim  little  finger  at 
it.  "  How  much  does  that  cost  T  she  asked  the 
Princess. 

"  Fifty  cent,"  replied  the  Princess. 

Nancy  had  just  eight  cents  at  home.  Flora 
had  nothing  at  all.  Her  father  sent  her  money 
every  month,  and  the  last  instalment  was  all 
spent.  Neither  of  them  could  buy  the  basket, 
and  fifty  cents  sounded  enormous,  but  their  faces 
were  quite  dignified  and  immovable.  It  might 
have  been  the  echo  of  their  strange  surround 
ings,  but  they  acted  as  if  they  had  Indian  blood 
themselves. 

They  turned  about  and  went  out  of  the  tent ; 
they  crossed  the  old  road  and  climbed  the  stone 
wall.  Flora  spoke  as  she  picked  her  way  across 
the  meadow.  "  Guess  I'll  buy  that  basket  when 
my  money  comes  next  week,"  said  she. 

Nancy  said  nothing ;  she  looked  gloomy.  She 
stepped  in  an  oozy  place  and  wet  one  foot,  but 
she  did  not  mind  it.  She  thought  of  her  eight 
cents,  and  did  an  example  in  mental  arithmetic. 
"  Eight  from  fifty  leaves  forty-two,"  she  calcu 
lated.  For  the  first  time  she  was  envious  of 


220  A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET 

Flora.  Everybody  finds  some  object  to  grudge 
to  another.  Nancy  had  found  hers — the  sweet- 
grass  basket.  If  she  had  expressed  her  feelings, 
she  would  have  said,  "  Must  she  have  all  those 
pretty  dresses  and  hats  and  the  sweet -grass 
basket,  too?" 

The  girls  went  home  silently ;  they  were  never 
great  talkers.  Flora  sat  down  in  the  sitting- 
room  with  her  aunt;  Nancy  went  up-stairs  to 
the  chamber  where  she  slept  with  Flora,  and  got 
her  little  purse  out  of  the  corner  of  her  bureau 
drawer.  She  counted  the  eight  cents,  and  puzzled 
over  the  problem  how  to  increase  it  to  fifty. 
She  puzzled  over  it  all  the  rest  of  that  day  until 
she  went  to  sleep  at  nine  o'clock.  The  next  day 
was  Sunday;  she  puzzled  over  it  as  she  sat  in 
the  pew  in  church,  but  she  could  not  arrive  at 
any  solution. 

However,  the  next  morning  she  had  an  inspi 
ration.  Her  mother  sent  her  over  to  Aunt  Lu- 
cretia's  on  an  errand.  Flora  was  not  allowed  to 
go;  it  was  a  very  hot  morning,  and  she  was 
rather  delicate.  Nancy  on  her  way  to  Aunt 
Lucretia's  thought  of  a  way  to  swell  eight  cents 
to  fifty.  She  trudged  down  the  sunny  road  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  her  face  was  scarlet  with  the  heat, 
but  she  ignored  all  little  discomforts. 

Aunt  Lucretia  lived  in  a  nice  square  white 


A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET  223 

house  with  a  green  lattice- work  porch  over  the 
front  door.  She  was  an  elderly  lady  and  quite 
rich.  She  had  a  Brussels  carpet  in  the  parlor 
and  kept  a  servant-maid. 

Nancy  went  in  the  side  door,  and  through  the 
sitting-room  into  the  front  entry.  The  parlor 
door  stood  open.  Aunt  Lucretia  and  her  serv 
ant,  Henrietta,  were  in  there.  Nancy  stood  look 
ing  in. 

"  Aunt  Lucretia,"  said  she. 

Aunt  Lucretia  came  forward,  with  Henrietta 
following. 

"  Well,  Nancy,  what  do  you  want  ?"  said  Aunt 
Lucretia.  She  was  quite  a  majestic  old  lady, 
very  tall  and  large  and  short- waisted.  She  wore 
her  gray  hair  in  two  puffs  each  side  of  her  face. 

"Mother  sent  your  Stanford  paper  back,"  re 
plied  Nancy. 

"Well,  you  can  lay  it  on  the  sitting-room 
table,"  said  Aunt  Lucretia.  "Is  your  mother 
well  this  morning  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Nancy  laid  the  Stanford  paper  on  the  sitting- 
room  table ;  then  she  followed  on  into  the  kitchen 
after  Aunt  Lucretia  and  Henrietta. 

"Is  there  anything  else  you  want,  Nancy?" 
asked  Aunt  Lucretia. 

"I  wanted  to  know  if — I  didn't  know  but— 


224  A   SWEET -GBASS   BASKET 

you'd  like  to  have  me  pick  some  blackberries  for 
you,  Aunt  Lucretia." 

"  Blackberries  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Aunt  Lucretia  stared  reflectively  at  Nancy. 
"  Do  you  suppose  your  mother  would  be  willing  1 
The  sun's  pretty  hot." 

"  Yes,  nia'am.    I  know  she  wouldn't  care." 

"  "Well,  I  do  want  two  quarts  of  blackberries 
dreadfully,  and  there  'ain't  a  boy  been  along. 
I'm  going  to  have  the  minister  and  his  wife  to 
tea  to-night,  and  I  want  to  have  blackberry  short 
cake.  Do  you  suppose  you  could  pick  me  two 
quarts  before  four  o'clock  this  afternoon  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I  know  where  they're  real 
thick." 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Lucretia,  "you  can  go 
home  and  ask  your  mother,  and  if  she's  will 
ing,  you  can  go  and  pick  them.  Mind  you  keep 
out  of  the  sun  all  you  can.  I'll  give  you  seven 
cents  a  quart ;  that's  a  cent  more  than  the  boys 
ask." 

"  Don't  you  want  more'n  two  quarts,  Aunt 
Lucretia  ?"  asked  Nancy,  timidly. 

"  I  guess  two  quarts  will  be  about  all  you'll 
want  to  pick,"  returned  Aunt  Lucretia,  grimly. 

"  No,  ma'am ;  it  won't." 

"  Well,  we'll  see  how  you  hold  out.    I  want 


A  SWEET -GKASS   BASKET  225 

four  quarts  for  jell  the  last  of  the  week ;  but  you 
pick  two  quarts  first,  and  see." 

Nancy  went  home.  She  ran  nearly  all  the 
way. 

"  You  go  right  into  the  sitting-room,  and  sit 
down  with  the  palm-leaf  fan,  and  cool  off  before 
you  do  anything  else,"  said  her  mother,  when  she 
proposed  the  plan ;  "  you'll  have  a  sun-stroke." 

So  Nancy  had  to  sit  in  the  dark,  cool  sitting- 
room  and  fan  herself  for  full  twenty  minutes 
before  she  was  allowed  to  put  on  her  old  dress 
and  Shaker  and  start  on  her  berrying  excursion. 
Flora  wanted  to  go,  too,  but  her  aunt  thought  it 
was  too  hot ;  she  was  apt  to  have  headaches.  She 
sat  on  the  back  door-step  shelling  pease  when 
Nancy  started. 

Nancy,  bustling  off  with  her  two-quart  tin  pail, 
glanced  back  at  Flora's  little  yellow  shaven  head 
bending  patiently  over  the  pan  of  pease  in  the 
doorway.  She  felt  guilty.  Was  she  not  going 
off  with  the  secret  intention  of  earning  money 
enough  to  buy  that  sweet-grass  basket  before 
Flora  could?  Flora  would  not  have  her  money 
until  Saturday ;  this  was  Monday.  If  she  could 
only  earn  the  forty -two  cents  in  the  mean  time. 

Nancy  worked  hard  that  week.  Her  hands 
and  arms  got  scratched ;  she  had  even  a  scratch 
across  her  nose.  The  blackberry  vines  seemed 


238  A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET 

almost  like  tangible  foes;  but  she  pushed  and 
tussled  with  them  until  she  had  picked  the  six 
quarts. 

On  Monday  Aunt  Lucretia  had  the  minister 
and  his  wife  to  tea,  and  made  blackberry  short 
cake;  on  Friday  she  made  blackberry  jelly. 
All  Nancy's  part  of  the  contract  was  promptly 
fulfilled,  but  Aunt  Lucretia's  was  not.  She  had 
not  a  cent  of  change  in  her  purse  when  Nancy 
brought  in  the  last  instalment  of  berries. 

"  You'll  have  to  wait  two  or  three  days  until 
I  can  get  this  bill  changed,"  said  she.  "  You've 
been  real  smart  about  picking  'em.  You've 
picked  'em  clean,  too.  Here's  a  piece  of  sweet- 
cake  for  you." 

Nancy  went  home  in  the  hot  sun.  Her  red, 
scratched  face  looked  gloomy  and  discouraged  in 
the  depths  of  the  Shaker  bonnet.  She  nibbled 
at  the  sweet-cake  as  she  went  along,  but  she  did 
not  care  for  it.  Here  it  was  Friday  forenoon, 
and  she  had  to  wait  two  or  three  days  for  her 
forty-two  cents.  Flora's  money  would  come, 
and  she  would  buy  the  sweet-grass  basket.  Nan 
cy  felt  quite  desperate.  That  afternoon  she 
teased  her  mother  to  let  her  go  over  to  Aunt 
Lucretia's  again. 

"  No ;  you  don't  go  a  step,"  said  her  mother. 
"  She's  making  jell',  and  you've  been  over  there 


A   SWEET -GRASS    BASKET  227 

once  to-day.  You  can  sit  down  with  your  knit 
ting-work  this  afternoon,  and  be  contented." 

Nancy  sat  down  with  her  knitting- work,  but 
she  was  not  contented.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  must  have  those  forty-two  cents.  After  tea 
she  begged  again  for  permission  to  go  to  Aunt 
Lucretia's.  "It's  real  nice  and  cool  out  now, 
mother,"  she  pleaded. 

"  I  don't  care  how  cool  it  is,"  said  her  mother, 
"  you  can't  go.  I  don't  see  what  has  got  into 
you." 

But  the  next  morning  Nancy  was  really  sent 
over  to  Aunt  Lucretia's  on  an  errand.  She  did 
the  errand,  then  she  stood  waiting. 

"Did  your  mother  want  anything  else ?"  asked 
Aunt  Lucretia. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  had  better  run  home  then. 
It's  baking  day,  and  maybe  you  can  help  your 
mother  some.  You'd  ought  to  help  her  all  you 
can,  you're  getting  to  be  a  big  girl.  I  used  to  do 
a  whole  week's  baking  before  I  was  your  age." 

"  Aunt  Lucretia !" 

"  What  say  ?" 

"  Have  you — got  that — bill — changed  yet  ?" 

"No,  I  haven't.  You  mustn't  tease.  I'm 
going  down  to  the  store  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
then  you  can  have  it." 

14 


228  A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET 

So  Nancy  went  home  again  without  her  forty- 
two  cents.  She  wept  a  little  on  the  way.  Here 
it  was  Saturday,  and  Flora  expecting  her  money 
on  the  noon  mail.  But  it  did  not  come  on  the 
noon  mail.  It  did  not  come  until  six  o'clock  at 
night,  and  Flora  did  not  think  of  buying  the 
basket  that  day. 

After  tea  that  night,  about  half-past  seven 
o'clock,  Nancy  did  something  that  she  had  never 
done  before  in  her  life.  She  went  over  to  her  Aunt 
Lucretia's  without  permission.  Her  mother  had 
gone  to  one  of  the  neighbor's.  Flora  was  in  the 
sitting-room  reading  a  story-book.  Nancy  stole 
out  of  the  front  door,  and  hurried  down  the  road. 

"  What  are  you  over  here  again  for,  child  ?" 
Aunt  Lucretia  cried  when  she  went  in. 

Aunt  Lucretia  and  Henrietta  were  in  the 
kitchen,  sticking  papers  over  the  jelly  tumblers. 

Nancy  hesitated,  and  blushed. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Aunt  Lucretia. 

"  I — didn't  know  but — what — you  might  have 
got — that  bill  changed." 

"  Why,  I  never  saw  such  an  acting  child ! 
Can't  you  wait  a  minute  ?  Henrietta,  have  you 
got  any  change  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Henrietta.  And  she  got 
her  purse,  and  they  counted  out  forty-two  cents. 
Twenty-two  of  them  were  in  pennies. 


A  SWEET -GKASS   BASKET  229 

"  "Now  I  hope  you're  satisfied,"  said  Aunt  Lu- 
cretia,  sharply.  "Did  your  mother  know  you 
came  over  here  ?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  you're  a  naughty  girl.  I'm  surprised 
at  you.  I  sha'n't  want  to  hire  you  to  pick  ber 
ries  again  if  this  is  the  way  you  do.  Go  right 
home,  and  mind  you  tell  your  mother  you've 
been  here." 

The  forty-two  cents,  twenty-two  of  which  were 
pennies,  jingled  and  weighed  heavily  in  Nancy's 
pocket.  She  was  not  happy  going  home.  She 
had  meditated  going  to  the  Indian  encampment 
that  night  to  buy  the  basket,  but  it  looked  so 
dark  over  the  fields  that  she  was  afraid  to ;  so 
she  went  straight  home.  Her  mother  had  re 
turned  from  the  neighbor's ;  there  she  stood  in 
the  front  door,  watching  for  her. 

"  Nancy  Mann,  I  want  to  know  where  you've 
been,"  she  cried  out,  as  soon  as  Nancy  opened 
the  gate. 

"  Over  to — Aunt  Lucretia's." 

"  You  went  over  there,  after  all  the  times  I 
told  you  not  to?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"What  for?" 

"  I  wanted  my — forty-two  cents." 

"  Forty-two  cents !    What  do  you  suppose  your 


A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET 


Aunt  Lucretia  thinks  of  you,  dunning  her  up  this 
way  ?  Now  you  come  in  and  light  your  candle, 
and  go  straight  up-stairs  to  bed." 

It  was  only  half-past  eight  o'clock.  Nancy 
went  to  bed.  Flora  sat  up  and  read  her  story 
book,  and  did  not  go  up-stairs  until  after  nine. 
Nancy  pretended  to  be  asleep  when  she  came  in, 
but  she  was  not.  She  did  not  go  to  sleep  for  an 
hour  after  that.  She  lay  there  and  cried  softly, 
and  planned. 

The  next  morning  was  very  pleasant.  It  was 
Sunday,  and  all  the  family  went  to  church. 
After  church,  Nancy  and  Flora  went  to  Sunday- 
school.  Sunday-school  was  out  about  one 
o'clock ;  then  they  walked  homeward  together. 
Nancy  lagged  behind,  and  Flora  kept  waiting 
for  her. 

"  Go  along ;  do,"  said  Nancy.  "  I  want  to  pick 
these  flowers." 

Flora  wondered  innocently  what  Nancy  want 
ed  to  pick  so  many  flowers  for.  The  flowers 
were  mostly  yarrow  and  arnica  blossoms,  and 
Flora  had  always  regarded  them  as  the  very  com 
monest  kind  of  weeds. 

They  were  quite  near  home,  when  Nancy 
climbed  swiftly  over  the  stone- wall  and  lay  down 
behind  it.  Flora  went  on  without  turning  her 
head.  Nancy  had  spoken  so  shortly  to  her  that 


A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET  231 

her  feelings  were  hurt.  When  she  went  into  the 
house  her  aunt  asked  where  Nancy  was. 

"  She's  coming,"  said  Flora.  "  She  stopped  to 
pick  flowers." 

But  it  was  a  half-hour  before  ISTancy  came. 
Running  as  fast  as  she  could  over  the  meadows, 
it  took  some  time  to  reach  the  Indian  encamp 
ment  and  return.  When  she  finally  approached 
the  house,  her  mother  stood  in  the  doorway, 
watching.  She  did  not  say  a  word  until  she 
came  close  to  her. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?"  she  inquired. 

Nancy  hung  her  head,  and  was  still.  She  kept 
one  hand  behind  her. 

"  Answer  me  this  minute." 

"  Down  to — the  Injuns." 

"What  for?  What  are  you  holding  behind 
you?" 

Nancy  did  not  answer, 

"  Bring  your  hand  round !"  commanded  her 
mother. 

Nancy  slowly  swung  around  the  hand  holding 
the  sweet-grass  basket. 

"  Did  you  go  down  to  the  Injuns  to-day,  and 
spend  that  money  you  earned  for  that  basket  ?" 
asked  her  mother. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her.     The  tears  were 


232  A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET 

streaming  over  her  hot 'cheeks  and  her  scratched 
nose;  her  best  hat  had  slipped  back,  and  the 
brim  was  bent ;  there  was  a  great  green  stain  on 
the  front  of  her  best  dress,  and  a  rent  on  the  side. 

"  I  can  never  get  that  green  off  your  dress  in 
the  world,"  said  her  mother.  "You'll  have  to 
wear  it  so.  Going  down  to  the  Injuns  to  buy 
baskets  on  Sunday,  in  your  best  dress  and  hat ! 
And  you  went  so  Flora  should'nt  get  it.  I  can 
see  right  through  you.  Now,  Nancy  Mann,  you 
just  march  straight  back  with  that  basket.  You 
ain't  going  to  do  any  trading  on  the  Sabbath 
day  while  you  belong  to  me." 

"  Oh,  mother !"  sobbed  Nancy ;  but  she  had  to 
go.  Her  forlorn  little  figure  disappeared  linger- 
ingly  between  the  garden  vines  and  bean  poles. 

"Hold  your  dress  back,"  called  her  mother. 
"  Don't  you  spoil  it  any  more  than  you've  done 
already." 

To  Nancy,  looking  through  a  mist  of  tears,  the 
green-clad  bean  poles  seemed  dancing  forward 
and  the  tomato  vines  creeping  to  meet  her. 
Crossing  the  meadow  she  wet  her  feet  in  her  best 
shoes.  But  all  this  was  nothing.  That  stout 
Indian  Princess  displayed  suddenly  a  sense  of 
humor  and  a  witty  shrewdness  which  seemed  ab 
normal.  Her  stolid  eyes  twinkled  under  their 
heavy  brows  when  Nancy  explained,  tremblingly, 


A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET  233 

how  she  had  brought  the  basket  back;  her 
mother  would  not  let  her  buy  it  on  Sunday. 

"  Me  no  buy  basket  Sunday,"  said  the  Princess, 
and  she  looked  loftily  away  from  the  sweet-grass 
basket  shaking  in  Nancy's  shaking  hand.  She 
was  not  in  the  least  moved  by  Nancy's  horrified, 
distressed  face.  Perhaps  something  of  the  an 
cient  cruelty  of  her  race  possessed  her ;  perhaps 
it  was  only  the  contagion  of  Yankee  shrewdness. 
Nancy  dared  not  go  home  with  the  basket ;  she 
went  home  without  it  or  her  fifty  cents. 

All  that  afternoon  Nancy  stayed  up  in  her 
chamber  and  wept,  while  her  best  dress  was  soak 
ing  to  remove  the  green  stain,  if  it  was  Sunday. 
She  felt  as  if  her  heart  were  broken.  She  had 
lost  her  self-respect,  the  sweet-grass  basket,  and 
her  fifty  cents,  besides  getting  a  great  green  stain 
on  her  best  dress.  Flora  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  she.  "It's  too  bad!  The 
Princess  is  real  mean."  And  then  Nancy  sobbed 
harder. 

When  her  mother  was  getting  supper,  her 
father  followed  into  the  pantry. 

"  I  declare  I  feel  sorry  for  the  child,"  said  he. 
"  She's  worked  real  hard  to  get  that  money,  and 
she  'ain't  ever  had  so  much  as  Flora.  If  it  wasn't 
Sunday  I'd  go  down  there  this  minute,  and  get 
back  the  money  or  the  basket  from  those  Injuns." 


234  A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET 

"  You'd  look  pretty  going,  and  you  a  deacon 
of  the  church,  after  the  way  the  Princess  put  it," 
returned  Nancy's  mother.  "I'm  sorry  enough 
for  Nancy,  but  she  ought  to  have  a  little  lesson. 
You  can  go  over  there  to-morrow  morning  and 
get  the  basket  back." 

There  was  a  beautiful  custard  pudding  for  sup 
per,  but  Nancy  did  not  want  any. 

"  Sit  up  and  eat  your  supper,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Your  father's  going  down  to  the  Injuns  in  the 
morning,  and  see  what  he  can  do  about  it." 

However,  Nancy  still  did  not  care  for  the  cus 
tard  pudding ;  everything  tasted  of  tears. 

The  next  morning,  before  Nancy's  father  had 
a  chance  to  go  to  the  Indians,  the  Princess  herself 
came  to  the  back  door.  Whether  she  came  from 
honesty  or  policy  nobody  could  tell;  but  she 
came,  and  she  brought  the  sweet-grass  basket. 
She  rapped  on  the  door,  and  Nancy  opened  it. 
The  Princess  extended  the  basket  without  a 
word.  Nancy  wiped  her  hands,  which  were 
damp  from  washing  the  breakfast  dishes,  on  her 
apron,  then  she  took  the  basket.  Then  the 
Princess  struck  off  across  the  garden. 

Nancy  carried  the  basket  into  the  kitchen. 
She  had  a  shamefaced  and  resolute  expres 
sion.  Flora  was  in  there,  and  her  father  and 
mother. 


A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET  235 

She  went  straight  to  Flora,  and  held  out  the 
basket.  Flora  drew  back,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Take  it,"  said  Nancy.     "  It's  for  you." 

Flora  looked  at  her  aunt. 

"Take  it,  if  she  wants  you  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Mann. 

Flora  took  it.  "  Thank  you,"  said  she.  She 
went  soberly  out  of  the  room  with  the  basket. 
Nancy  returned  to  her  dish- washing  at  the  sink, 
her  father  stared  out  of  the  window,  her  mother 
came  and  shoved  her  aside,  and  took  the  dish 
cloth  out  of  her  hands. 

"  There,  I'll  wash  this  heavy  spider,"  said  she. 
"You  can  go  and  put  on  your  other  dress.  I 
want  you  to  go  down  to  the  store  for  me,  and 
I'm  going  to  let  you  buy  a  couple  of  yards  of 
that  pretty  pink  calico  for  a  new  apron." 

Nancy  had  admired  that  pink  calico.  As  she 
went  out  of  the  kitchen  her  father  caught  her 
by  the  shoulders  and  gave  her  a  little  shake; 
then  he  patted  her  head. 

"Don't  run  too  fast,  and  get  all  tired  out," 
said  he. 

Nancy  put  on  her  buff  calico,  and  went  to  the 
store.  It  was  an  errand  to  take  about  an  hour. 
She  had  been  gone  about  a  half -hour  when  the 
Indian  Princess  again  came  through  the  bean 
poles  and  tomato  vines.  This  time  she  was  all 


236  A   SWEET -GRASS   BASKET 

strung  about  with  baskets.  She  stood  at  the 
kitchen  door,  and  parleyed  with  Mrs.  Mann  and 
Flora.  When  she  went  away  she  had  a  fifty- 
cent  piece  in  one  brown  fist,  and  she  was  eating 
a  molasses  cooky. 

Nancy  came  home  with  the  pink  calico,  and 
half  a  pound  of  cream  of  tartar ;  her  mother  and 
Flora  were  in  the  sitting-room,  and  they  laughed 
when  she  entered. 

Nancy  looked  soberly  at  them.  "  Here's  the 
calico,  and  the  cream  tartar, '>  said  she. 

"  See  what  Flora  has  got  for  you,"  said  her 
mother. 

Nancy  stared  around.  There  on  the  table 
stood  two  sweet-grass  baskets  exactly  alike. 

"  The  Princess  came  again,  and  she  had  another 
basket.  I  got  it  for  you,"  said  Flora. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Nancy,  in  a  sober  voice, 
but  the  dark  depths  of  the  Shaker  bonnet  seemed 
fairly  illumined  with  smiles. 


HERITABLE  LAMB 


HANNAH  MARIA  GEEEN  sat  on  the  north  door 
step,  and  sewed  over  and  over  a  seam  in  a  sheet. 
She  had  just  gotten  into  her  teens,  and  she  was 
tall  for  her  age,  although  very  slim.  She  wore  a 
low-necked,  and  short-sleeved,  brown  delaine 
dress.  That  style  of  dress  was  not  becoming, 
but  it  was  the  fashion  that  summer.  Her  neck 
was  very  thin,  and  her  collar-bones  showed.  Her 
arms  were  very  long  and  small  and  knobby. 
Hannah  Maria's  brown  hair  was  parted  from  her 
forehead  to  the  back  of  her  neck,  braided  in  two 
tight  braids,  crossed  in  a  flat  mass  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  surmounted  by  a  large  green-rib 
bon  bow.  Hannah  Maria  kept  patting  the  bow 
to  be  sure  it  was  on. 

It  was  very  cool  there  on  the  north  door 
step.  Before  it  lay  the  wide  north  yard  full 
of  tall  waving  grass,  with  some  little  cinnamon 
rose-bushes  sunken  in  it.  Hardly  anybody  used 


238  MEHITABLE   LAMB 

the  north  door,  so  there  was  no  path  leading 
to  it. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock.  Hannah  Maria 
bent  her  sober  freckled  face  over  the  sheet,  and 
sewed  and  sewed.  Her  mother  had  gone  to  the 
next  town  to  do  some  shopping,  and  bidden  her 
to  finish  the  seam  before  she  returned.  Han 
nah  Maria  was  naturally  obedient;  moreover, 
her  mother  was  a  decided  woman,  so  she  had 
been  very  diligent;  in  fact  the  seam  was  nearly 
sewed. 

It  was  very  still — that  is,  there  were  only  the 
sounds  that  seem  to  make  a  part  of  stillness. 
The  birds  twittered,  the  locusts  shrilled,  and  the 
tall  clock  in  the  entry  ticked.  Hannah  Maria 
was  not  afraid,  but  she  was  lonesome.  Once 
in  a  while  she  looked  around  and  sighed.  She 
placed  a  pin  a  little  way  in  advance  on  the  seam, 
and  made  up  her  mind  that  when  she  had  sewed 
to  that  place  she  would  go  into  the  house  and 
get  a  slice  of  cake.  Her  mother  had  told  her 
that  she  might  cut  a  slice  from  the  one-egg  cake 
which  had  been  made  that  morning.  But  before 
she  had  sewed  to  the  pin,  little  Mehitable  Lamb 
came  down  the  road.  She  was  in  reality  some 
years  younger  than  Hannah  Maria,  but  not  so 
much  younger  as  Hannah  Maria  considered  her. 
The  girl  on  the  door-step  surveyed  the  one  ap- 


MEHITABLE   LAMB  289 

preaching  down  the  road  with  a  friendly  and 
patronizing  air. 

"  Holloa !"  she  sang  out,  when  Mehitable  was 
within  hailing  distance. 

"Holloa!"  answered  back  Mehitable's  little, 
sweet,  deferential  voice. 

She  came  straight  on,  left  the  road,  and  struck 
across  the  grassy  north  yard  to  Hannah  Maria's 
door-step.  She  was  a  round,  fair  little  girl ;  her 
auburn  hair  was  curled  in  a  row  of  neat,  smooth 
"water  curls"  around  her  head.  She  wore  a 
straw  hat  with  a  blue  ribbon,  and  a  blue-and- 
white  checked  gingham  dress;  she  also  wore 
white  stockings  and  patent  leather  "  ankle-ties." 
Her  dress  was  low-necked  and  short-sleeved,  like 
Hannah  Maria's,  but  her  neck  and  arms  were 
very  fair  and  chubby. 

Mehitable  drew  her  big  china  doll  in  a  doll's 
carriage.  Hannah  Maria  eyed  her  with  seeming 
disdain  and  secret  longing.  She  herself  had  given 
up  playing  with  dolls,  her  mother  thought  her  too 
big;  but  they  had  still  a  fascination  for  her,  and 
the  old  love  had  not  quite  died  out  of  her  breast. 

"  Mother  said  I  might  come  over  and  stay  an 
hour  and  a  half,"  said  Mehitable. 

Hannah  Maria  smiled  hospitably.  "  I'm  keepin' 
house,"  said  she.  "  Mother's  gone  to  Lawrence." 

Mehitable  took  her  doll  out  of  the  carriage 


240  HERITABLE   LAMB 

with  a  motherly  air,  and  sat  down  on  the  door 
step  with  it  in  her  lap. 

"How  much  longer  you  goin'  to  play  with 
dolls?"  inquired  Hannah  Maria. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mehitable,  with  a  little 
shamed  droop  of  her  eyelids. 

"  You  can't  when  you  get  a  little  bigger,  any 
how.  Is  that  a  new  dress  she's  got  on  ?" 

"  Yes ;  Aunt  Susy  made  it  out  of  a  piece  of 
her  blue  silk." 

"  It's  handsome,  isn't  it  ?  Let  me  take  her  a 
minute."  Hannah  Maria  took  the  doll  and  cud 
dled  it  up  against  her  shoulder  as  she  had  used 
to  do  with  her  own.  She  examined  the  blue 
silk  dress.  "  My  doll  had  a  real  handsome  plaid 
silk  one,"  said  she,  and  she  spoke  as  if  the  doll 
were  dead.  She  sighed. 

"Have  you  given  her  away?"  inquired  Me 
hitable,  in  a  solemn  tone. 

"  No ;  she's  packed  away.  I'm  too  old  to  play 
with  her,  you  know.  Mother  said  I  had  other 
things  to  'tend  to.  Dolls  are  well  'nough  for 
little  girls  like  you.  Here,  you'd  better  take  her ; 
I've  got  to  finish  my  sewin'." 

Hannah  Maria  handed  back  the  doll  with  a 
resolute  air,  but  she  handed  her  back  tenderly ; 
then  she  sewed  until  she  reached  the  pin.  Me 
hitable  rocked  her  doll,  and  watched. 


MEHITABLE    LAMB  241 

When  Hannah  Maria  reached  the  pin  she 
jumped  up.  "I'm  comin'  back  in  a  minute," 
said  she,  and  disappeared  in  the  house.  Pres 
ently  Mehitable  heard  the  dishes  rattle. 

"She's  gone  after  a  cooky,"  she  thought. 
Cookies  were  her  usual  luncheon. 

But  Hannah  Maria  came  back  with  a  long 
slice  of  one-egg  cake  with  blueberries  in  it.  She 
broke  it  into  halves,  and  gave  the  larger  one  to 
Mehitable.  "There,"  said  she,  "I'd  give  you 
more,  but  mother  didn't  tell  me  I  could  cut 
more'n  one  slice." 

Mehitable  ate  her  cake  appreciatively ;  once  in 
a  while  she  slyly  fed  her  doll  with  a  bit. 

Hannah  Maria  took  bites  of  hers  between  the 
stitches;  she  had  almost  finished  the  over-and- 
over  seams. 

Presently  she  rose  and  shook  out  the  sheet  with 
a  triumphant  air.  "  There,"  said  she, "  it's  done." 

"  Did  you  sew  all  that  this  afternoon? "  asked 
Mehitable,  in  an  awed  tone. 

"  My !  yes.    It  isn't  so  very  much  to  do." 

Hannah  Maria  laid  the  sheet  down  in  a  heap 
on  the  entry  floor ;  then  she  looked  at  Mehita 
ble.  "  Now,  I've  nothin'  more  to  do,"  said  she. 
"  S'pose  we  go  to  walk  a  little  ways  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  my  mother'd  like  to  have 
me  do  that." 


242  MEHITABLE    LAMB 

"  Oh  yes,  she  would ;  she  won't  care.  Come 
along !  I'll  get  my  hat." 

Hannah  Maria  dashed  over  the  sheet  into  the 
entry  and  got  her  hat  off  the  peg ;  then  she  and 
Mehitable  started.  They  strolled  up  the  country 
road.  Mehitable  trundled  her  doll-carriage  care 
fully  ;  once  in  a  while  she  looked  in  to  see  if  the 
doll  was  all  right. 

"  Isn't  that  carriage  kind  of  heavy  for  you  to 
drag  all  alone  ?"  inquired  Hannah  Maria. 

"  No  ;  it  isn't  very  heavy." 

"  I  had  just  as  lief  help  you  drag  it  as  not." 

Hannah  Maria  reached  down  and  took  hold 
by  one  side  of  the  handle  of  the  doll-carriage, 
and  the  two  girls  trundled  it  together. 

There  were  no  houses  for  a  long  way.  The 
road  stretched  between  pasture-lands  and  apple- 
orchards.  There  was  one  very  fine  orchard  on 
both  sides  of  the  street  a  quarter  of  a  mile  be 
low  Hannah  Maria's  house.  The  trees  were 
so  heavily  loaded  with  green  apples  that  the 
branches  hung  low  over  the  stone  walls.  Now 
and  then  there  was  among  them  a  tree  full  of 
ripe  yellow  apples. 

"Don't  you  like  early  apples?"  asked  Han 
nah  Maria. 

Mehitable  nodded. 

"Had  any?" 


MEHITABLE   T.AMtt  348 

"No." 

"  They  don't  grow  in  your  field,  do  they  ?" 

Mehitable  shook  her  head.  "Mother  makes 
pies  with  our  apples,  but  they're  not  mellow 
'nough  to  eat  now,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,"  said  Hannah  Maria,  "  we  haven't  got 
any.  All  our  apples  are  baldwins  and  greenin's. 
I  havn't  had  an  early  apple  this  summer." 

The  two  went  on,  trundling  the  doll-carriage. 
Suddenly  Hannah  Maria  stopped. 

"  Look  here,"  said  she ;  "  my  aunt  Jenny  and 
my  uncle  Timothy  have  got  lots  of  early  apples. 
You  just  go  along  this  road  a  little  farther,  and 
you  get  to  the  road  that  leads  to  their  house. 
S'pose  we  go." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"  Oh,  not  very  far.  Father  walks  over  some 
times." 

"  I  don't  believe  my  mother  would  like  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  she  would !    Come  along." 

But  all  Hannah  Maria's  entreaties  could  not 
stir  Mehitable  Lamb.  When  they  reached  the 
road  that  led  to  Uncle  Timothy's  house  she  stood 
still. 

"  My  mother  won't  like  it,"  said  she. 

"  Yes,  she  will." 

Mehitable  stood  as  if  she  and  the  doll-carriage 
were  anchored  to  the  road. 

15 


244  MEHITABLE   LAMB 

"  I  think  you're  real  mean,  Mehitable  Lamb," 
said  Hannah  Maria.  "You're  a  terrible  'fraid 
cat.  I'm  goin',  anyhow,  and  I  won't  bring  you 
a  single  apple ;  so  there !" 

"  Don't  want  any,"  returned  Mehitable,  with 
some  spirit.  She  turned  the  doll-carriage  around. 
Hannah  Maria  walked  up  the  road  a  few  steps. 
Suddenly  she  faced  about.  Mehitable  had  already 
started  homeward. 

"  Mehitable  Lamb !"  said  she. 

Mehitable  looked  around. 

'  "  I  s'pose  you'll  go  right  straight  home  and  tell 
my  mother  just  as  quick  as  you  can  get  there." 

Mehitable  said  nothing. 

"  You'll  be  an  awful  telltale  if  you  do." 

"  Sha'n't  tell,"  said  Mehitable,  in  a  sulky  voice. 

"  Will  you  promise — '  Honest  and  true.  Black 
and  blue.  Lay  me  down  and  cut  me  in  two' — 
that  you  won't  tell?" 

Mehitable  nodded. 

"  Say  it  over  then." 

Mehitable  repeated  the  formula.  It  sounded 
like  inaudible  gibberish. 

"I  shall  tell  her  myself  when  I  get  home," 
said  Hannah  Maria.  "I  shall  be  back  pretty 
soon,  anyway,  but  I  don't  want  her  sending  father 
after  me.  You're  sure  you're  not  goin'  to  tell, 
now,  Mehitable  Lamb  ?  Say  it  over  again." 


MEHITABLE    LAMB  245 

Mehitable  said  it  again. 

"Well,  you'll  be  an  awful  telltale  if  you  do 
tell  after  that !"  said  Hannah  Maria. 

She  went  on  up  one  road  towards  her  uncle 
Timothy  Dunn's,  and  Mehitable  trundled  her 
doll -carriage  homeward  down  the  other.  She 
went  straight  on  past  Hannah  Maria's  house. 
Hannah  Maria's  mother,  Mrs.  Green,  had  come 
home.  She  saw  the  white  horse  and  buggy  out 
in  the  south  yard.  She  heard  Mrs.  Green's  voice 
calling,  "Hannah  Maria,  Hannah  Maria!"  and 
she  scudded  by  like  a  rabbit. 

Mehitable's  own  house  was  up  the  hill,  not  far 
beyond.  She  lived  there  with  her  mother  and 
grandmother  and  her  two  aunts ;  her  father  was 
dead.  The  smoke  was  coming  out  of  the  kitchen 
chimney;  her  aunt  Susy  was  getting  supper. 
Aunt  Susy  was  the  younger  and  prettier  of  the 
aunts.  Mehitable  thought  her  perfection.  She 
came  to  the  kitchen  door  when  Mehitable  entered 
the  yard,  and  stood  there  smiling  at  her. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "did  you  have  a  nice  time  at 
Hannah  Maria's  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  What  makes  you  look  so  sober  ?" 

Mehitable  said  nothing. 

"  Did  you  play  dolls  ?" 

"  Hannah  Maria's  too  big," 


246  MEHITABLE   LAMB 

"  Stuff !"  cried  Aunt  Susy.  Then  her  short-cake 
was  burning,  and  she  had  to  run  in  to  see  to  it. 

Mehitable  took  her  china  doll  out  of  the  car 
riage,  set  her  carefully  on  the  step,  and  then 
lugged  the  carriage  laboriously  to  a  corner  of  the 
piazza,  where  she  always  kept  it.  It  was  a  very 
nice  large  carriage,  and  rather  awkward  to  be 
kept  in  the  house.  Then  she  took  her  doll  and 
went  in  through  the  kitchen  to  the  sitting-room. 
Her  mother  and  grandmother  and  other  aunt 
were  in  there,  and  they  were  all  glad  to  see  her, 
and  inquired  if  she  had  had  a  nice  time  at  Han 
nah  Maria's.  But  Mehitable  was  very  sober. 
She  did  not  seem  like  herself.  Her  mother  asked 
whether  she  did  not  feel  well,  and,  in  spite  of  her 
saying  that  she  did,  would  not  let  her  eat  any  of 
her  aunt  Susy's  shortcake  for  supper.  She  had 
to  eat  some  stale  bread,  and  shortly  after  supper 
she  had  to  go  to  bed.  Her  mother  went  up-stairs 
with  her,  and  tucked  her  in. 

"  She's  all  tired  out,"  she  said  to  the  others, 
when  she  came  down ;  it's  quite  a  little  walk  over 
to  the  Greens',  and  I  s'pose  she  played  hard.  I 
don't  really  like  to  have  her  play  with  a  girl  so 
much  older  as  Hannah  Maria.  She  isn't  big 
enough  to  run  and  race." 

"  She  didn't  seem  like  herself  when  she  came 
into  the  yard,"  said  Aunt  Susy. 


MEHITABLE   LAMB  247 

"I  should  have  given  her  a  good  bowl  of 
thorough  wort  tea,  when  she  went  to  bed,"  said 
her  grandmother. 

"The  kitchen  fire  isn't  out  yet;  I  can  steep 
some  thorough  wort  now,"  said  Aunt  Susy,  and 
she  forthwith  started.  She  brewed  a  great  bowl 
of  thorough  wort  tea  and  carried  it  up  to  Mehit- 
able.  Mehitable's  wistful  innocent  blue  eyes 
stared  up  out  of  the  pillows  at  Aunt  Susy  and 
the  bowl. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  inquired. 

"A  bowl  of  nice  hot  thorough  wort  tea.  You 
sit  up  and  drink  it  right  down,  like  a  good  little 
girl." 

"  I'm  not  sick,  Aunt  Susy,"  Mehitable  pleaded, 
faintly.  She  hated  thoroughwort  tea. 

"  Well,  never  mind  if  you're  not.  Sit  right  up. 
It'll  do  you  good." 

Aunt  Susy's  face  was  full  of  loving  determi 
nation.  So  Mehitable  sat  up.  She  drank  the 
thoroughwort  tea  with  convulsive  gulps.  Once 
in  a  while  she  paused  and  rolled  her  eyes  pit- 
eously  over  the  edge  of  the  bowl. 

"  Drink  it  right  down,"  said  Aunt  Susy. 

And  she  drank  it  down.  There  never  was  a 
more  obedient  little  girl  than  Mehitable  Lamb. 
Then  she  lay  back,  and  Aunt  Susy  tucked  her 
up,  and  went  down  with  the  empty  bowl. 


248  MEHITABLE    LAMB 

"Did  she  drink  it  all?"  inquired  her  grand* 
mother. 

"Every  mite." 

"Well,  shell  be  all  right  in  the  morning,  I 
guess.  There  isn't  anything  better  than  a  bowl 
of  good,  hot,  thoroughwort  tea." 

The  twilight  was  deepening.  The  Lamb  family 
were  all  in  the  sitting-room.  They  had  not 
lighted  the  lamp,  the  summer  dusk  was  so  pleas 
ant.  The  windows  were  open.  All  at  once  a 
dark  shadow  appeared  at  one  of  them.  The 
women  started — all  but  Grandmother  Lamb.  She 
was  asleep  in  her  chair. 

"  "Who's  there  ?"  Aunt  Susy  asked,  in  a  grave 
tone. 

"  Have  you  seen  anything  of  Hannah  Maria?" 
said  a  hoarse  voice.  Then  they  knew  it  was  Mr. 
Green. 

Mrs.  Lamb  and  the  aunts  pressed  close  to  the 
window. 

"  No,  we  haven't,"  replied  Mrs.  Lamb.  "  Why, 
what's  the  matter  ?" 

"We  can't  find  her  anywheres.  Mother  went 
over  to  Lawrence  this  afternoon,  and  I  was  down 
in  the  east  field  hayin'.  Mother,  she  got  home 
first,  and  Hannah  Maria  wasn't  anywhere  about 
the  house,  an'  she'd  kind  of  an  idea  she'd  gone 
over  to  the  Bennets';  she'd  been  talkin'  about 


MEHITABLE    LAMB  249 

goin'  there  to  get  a  tidy-pattern  of  the  Bennet 
girl,  so  she  waited  till  I  got  home.  I  jest  put 
the  horse  in  again,  an'  drove  over  there,  but  she's 
not  been  there.  I  don't  know  where  she  is. 
Mother's  most  crazy." 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  they  cried,  all  altogether. 

"  Sittin'  out  in  the  road,  in  the  buggy." 

Mrs.  Lamb  and  the  aunts  hurried  out.  They 
and  Mr.  Green  stood  beside  the  buggy,  and  Mrs. 
Green  thrust  her  anxious  face  out. 

"Oh,  where  do  you  suppose  she  is?"  she 
groaned. 

"  Now,  do  keep  calm,  Mrs.  Green,"  said  Mrs. 
Lamb,  in  an  agitated  voice.  "  We've  got  some 
thing  to  tell  you.  Mehitable  was  over  there  this 
afternoon." 

"  Oh,  she  wasn't,  was  she  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  was.  She  went  about  four  o'clock, 
and  she  stayed  an  hour  and  a  half.  Hannah  Ma 
ria  was  all  right  then.  Now,  I  tell  you  what 
we'll  do,  Mrs.  Green :  you  just  get  right  out  of 
the  buggy,  and  Mr.  Green  will  hitch  the  horse, 
and  we'll  go  in  and  ask  Mehitable  just  how  she 
left  Hannah  Maria.  Don't  you  worry.  You  keep 
calm,  and  we'll  find  her." 

Mrs.  Green  stepped  tremblingly  from  the  bug 
gy.  She  could  scarcely  stand.  Mrs.  Lamb  took 
one  arm  and  Aunt  Susy  the  other.  Mr.  Greey 


250  MEHITABLE   LAMB 

hitched  the  horse,  and  they  all  went  into  the 
house,  and  up-stairs  to  Mehitable's  room.  Mehit- 
able  was  not  asleep.  She  stared  at  them  in  a 
frightened  way  as  they  all  filed  into  the  room. 
Mrs.  Green  rushed  to  the  bed. 

"Oh,  Mehitable,"  she  cried,  "when  did  you 
last  see  my  Hannah  Maria?" 

Mehitable  looked  at  her  and  said  nothing. 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Green  when  you  last  saw  Hannah 
Maria,"  said  Mrs.  Lamb. 

"  I  guess  'twas  'bout  five  o'clock,"  replied  Me 
hitable,  in  a  quavering  voice. 

"  She  got  home  at  half-past  five,"  interposed 
Mehitable's  mother. 

"  Did  she  look  all  right  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Green. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Nobody  came  to  the  house  when  you  were 
there,  did  there  ?"  asked  Mr.  Green. 

"No,  sir." 

Aunt  Susy  came  forward.  "Now  look  here, 
Mehitable,"  said  she.  "  Do  you  know  anything 
about  what  has  become  of  Hannah  Maria? 
Answer  me,  yes  or  no." 

Mehitable's  eyes  were  like  pale  moons;  her 
little  face  was  as  white  as  the  pillow. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  what  has  become  of  her?" 

Mehitable  was  silent. 


MEHITABLE    LAMB  251 

"  Why,  Mehitable  Lamb !"  repeated  Aunt  Susy, 
"  tell  us  this  minute  what  has  become  of  Hannah 
Maria!" 

Mehitable  was  silent. 

"  Oh,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Green,  "  you  must  tell  me. 
Mehitable,  you'll  tell  Hannah  Maria's  mother 
what  has  become  of  her,  won't  you  2" 

Mehitable's  mother  bent  over  her  and  whis 
pered,  but  Mehitable  lay  there  like  a  little  stone 
image. 

"  Oh,  do  make  her  tell !"  pleaded  Mrs.  Green. 

"Come,  now,  tell,  and  I'll  buy  you  a  whole 
pound  of  candy,"  said  Mr.  Green. 

"  Mehitable,  you  must  tell,"  said  Aunt  Susy. 

Suddenly  Mehitable  began  to  cry.  She  sobbed 
and  sobbed;  her  little  body  shook  convulsively. 
They  all  urged  her  to  tell,  but  she  only  shook  her 
head  between  the  sobs. 

Grandmother  Lamb  came  into  the  room.  She 
had  awakened  from  her  nap. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  inquired.  "What 
ails  Mehitable  ?  Is  she  sick  ?" 

"  Hannah  Maria  is  lost,  and  Mehitable  knows 
what  has  become  of  her,  and  she  won't  tell,"  ex 
plained  Aunt  Susy. 

"  Massy  sakes  !"  Grandmother  Lamb  went  up 
to  the  bed.  "  Tell  grandmother,"  she  whispered, 
"  an'  she'll  give  you  a  pep'mint." 


252  MEHITABLE   LAMB 

But  Mehitable  shook  her  head  and  sobbed. 

They  all  pleaded  and  argued  and  commanded, 
but  they  got  no  reply  but  that  shake  of  the  head 
and  sobs. 

"  The  child  will  be  sick  if  she  keeps  on  this 
way,"  said  Grandmother  Lamb. 

"  She  deserves  to  be  sick !"  said  Hannah  Ma 
ria's  mother,  in  a  desperate  voice ;  and  Mehitable's 
mother  forgave  her. 

"  We  may  as  well  go  down,"  said  Mr.  Green, 
with  a  groan.  "I  can't  waste  any  more  time 
here ;  I've  got  to  do  something." 

"  Oh,  here  'tis  night  coming  on,  and  my  poor 
child  lost !"  wailed  Hannah  Maria's  mother. 

Mehitable  sobbed  so  that  it  was  pitiful  in  spite 
of  her  obstinacy. 

"If  that  child  don't  have  somethin'  to  take, 
she'll  be  sick,"  said  her  grandmother.  "  I  dunno 
as  there's  any  need  of  her  bein'  sick  if  Hannah 
Maria  is  lost."  And  she  forthwith  went  stiffly 
down-stairs.  The  rest  followed — all  except  Mrs. 
Lamb.  She  lingered  to  plead  longer  with  Me 
hitable. 

"You're  mother's  own  little  girl,"  said  she, 
"  and  nobody  shall  scold  you  whatever  happens. 
Now,  tell  mother  what  has  become  of  Hannah 
Maria." 

But  it  was  of  no  use.     Finally,  Mrs.  Lamb 


HERITABLE    LAMB  253 

tucked  the  clothes  over  Mehitable  with  a  jerk, 
and  went  down-stairs  herself.  They  were  having 
a  consultation  there  in  the  sitting-room.  It  was 
decided  that  Mr.  Green  should  drive  to  Mr.  Pit- 
kin's,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  see  if 
they  knew  anything  of  Hannah  Maria,  and  get 
Mr.  Pitkin  to  aid  in  the  search. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  over  to  Timothy's  to-night,  if  I 
were  you,"  said  Mrs.  Green.  "  Jenny's  dreadful 
nervous,  and  it  would  use  her  all  up ;  she  thought 
so  much  of  Hannah  Maria." 

Mrs.  Green's  voice  broke  with  a  sob. 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  there,"  returned  Mr.  Green. 
"  It  isn't  any  use.  It  isn't  likely  they  know  any 
thing  about  her.  It's  a  good  five  mile  off." 

Mr.  Green  got  into  his  buggy  and  drove  away. 
Mrs.  Green  went  home,  and  Aunt  Susy  and  the 
other  aunt  with  her.  Nobody  slept  in  the  Lamb 
or  the  Green  house  that  night,  except  Grand 
mother  Lamb.  She  dozed  in  her  chair,  although 
they  could  not  induce  her  to  go  to  bed.  But 
first  she  started  the  kitchen  fire,  and  made  an 
other  bowl  of  thorough  wort  tea  for  Mehitable. 

"  She'll  be  sick  jest  as  sure  as  the  world,  if  she 
doesn't  drink  it,"  said  she.  And  Mehitable  lifted 
her  swollen,  teary  face  from  the  pillow  and  drank 
it.  "  She  don't  know  any  more  where  that  Green 
girl  has  gone  to  than  I  do,"  said  Grandmother 


254  MEHITABLE    LAMB 

Lamb,  when  she  went  down  with  the  bowL 
"  There  isn't  any  use  in  pesterin'  the  child  so." 

Mrs.  Lamb  watched  for  Mr.  Green  to  return 
from  Mr.  Pitkin's,  and  ran  out  to  the  road.  He  had 
with  him  Mr.  Pitkin's  hired  man  and  eldest  boy. 

"Pitkin's  harnessed  up  and  gone  the  other 
way,  over  to  the  village,  and  we're  goin'  to  look 
round  the  place  thorough,  an'  —  look  in  the  well," 
he  said,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  If  she  would  only  tell,"  groaned  Mrs.  Lamb. 
"  Pve  done  all  I  can.  I  can't  maJce  her  speak." 

Mr.  Green  groaned  in  response,  and  drove  on. 
Mrs.  Lamb  went  in,  and  stood  at  her  sitting-room 
window  and  watched  the  lights  over  at  the  Green 
house.  They  flitted  from  one  room  to  another 
all  night.  At  dawn  Aunt  Susy  ran  over  with 
her  shawl  over  her  head.  She  was  wan  and 
hollow-eyed. 

"  They  haven't  found  a  sign  of  her,"  said  she. 
"  They've  looked  everywhere.  The  Pitkin  boy's 
been  down  the  well.  Mr.  Pitkin  has  just  come 
over  from  the  village,  and  a  lot  of  men  are  going 
out  to  hunt  for  her  as  soon  as  it's  light.  If  Me- 
hitable  only  would  tell  !" 

"  I  can't  make  her,"  said  Mrs.  Lamb,  despair* 


"  I  know  what  I  think  you'd  ought  to  do,"  said 
Aunt  Susy,  in  a  desperate  voice. 


MEHITABLE   LAMB  255 

"What?" 

"  Whip  her." 

"  Oh,  Susy,  I  can't !  I  never  whipped  her  in 
my  life." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care.  I  should."  Aunt  Susy 
had  the  tragic  and  resolute  expression  of  an  in 
quisitor.  She  might  have  been  proposing  the 
rack.  "  I  think  it  is  your  duty,"  she  added. 

Mrs.  Lamb  sank  into  the  rocking-chair  and 
wept ;  but  within  an  nours  time  Mehitable  stood 
shivering  and  sobbing  in  her  night-gown,  and 
held  out  her  pretty  little  hands  while  her  mother 
switched  them  with  a  small  stick.  Aunt  Susy 
was  crying  down  in  the  sitting-room.  "  Did  she 
tell?"  she  inquired,  when  her  sister,  quite  pale 
and  trembling,  came  in  with  the  stick. 

"  ISTo,"  replied  Mrs.  Lamb.  "  I  never  will  whip 
that  dear  child  again,  come  what  will."  And 
she  broke  the  stick  in  two  and  threw  it  out  of 
the  window. 

As  the  day  advanced  teams  began  to  pass  the 
house.  Now  and  then  one  heard  a  signal  horn. 
The  search  for  Hannah  Maria  was  being  organ 
ized.  Mrs.  Lamb  and  the  aunts  cooked  a  hot 
breakfast,  and  carried  it  over  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Green.  They  felt  as  if  they  must  do  something 
to  prove  their  regret  and  sympathy.  Mehitable 
was  up  and  dressed,  but  her  poor  little  auburn 


256  MEHITABLE   LAMB 

locks  were  not  curled,  and  the  pink  roundness 
seemed  gone  from  her  face.  She  sat  quietly  in 
her  little  chair  in  the  sitting-room  and  held  her 
doll.  Her  mother  had  punished  her  very  ten 
derly,  but  there  were  some  red  marks  on  her 
little  hands.  She  had  not  eaten  any  break 
fast,  but  her  grandmother  had  kindly  made  her 
some  thoroughwort  tea.  The  bitterness  of  life 
seemed  actually  tasted  to  poor  little  Mehitable 
Lamb. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Lamb  and 
the  aunts  had  just  carried  the  hot  breakfast  over 
to  the  Green's,  and  were  arranging  it  on  the 
table,  when  another  team  drove  into  the  yard. 
It  was  a  white  horse  and  a  covered  wagon.  On 
the  front  seat  sat  Hannah  Maria's  aunt,  Jenny 
Dunn,  and  a  young  lady,  one  of  Hannah  Maria's 
cousins.  Mrs.  Green  ran  to  the  door.  "Oh, 
Jenny,  have  you  heard  ?"  she  gasped.  Then  she 
screamed,  for  Hannah  Maria  was  peeking  out  of 
the  rear  of  the  covered  wagon.  She  was  in  there 
with  another  young  lady  cousin,  and  a  great 
basket  of  yellow  apples. 

"  Hannah  Maria  Green,  where  have  you  been  ?" 
cried  her  mother. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  think !  That  child  walked 
'way  over  to  our  house  last  night,"  Aunt  Jenny 
said,  volubly ;  "  and  Timothy  was  gone  with  the 


MEHITABLE    LAMB  257 

horse,  and  there  wasn't  anything  to  do  but  to 
keep  her.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be  worried  about 
her,  for  she  said  the  little  Lamb  girl  knew  where 
she'd  gone,  and—" 

Mrs.  Green  jerked  the  wagon  door  open  and 
pulled  Hannah  Maria  out.  "  Go  right  into  the 
house  !"  she  said,  in  a  stern  voice.  "  Here  she 
wouldn't  tell  where  you'd  gone.  And  the  whole 
town  hunting !  Go  in." 

Hannah  Maria's  face  changed  from  uneasy  and 
deprecating  smiles  to  the  certainty  of  grief.  "  Oh, 
I  made  her  promise  not  to  tell,  but  I  s'posed  she 
would,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  didn't  know  'twas  going 
to  be  so  far.  Oh,  mother,  I'm  sorry !" 

"  Go  right  in,"  said  her  mother. 

And  Hannah  Maria  went  in.  Aunt  Susy  and 
Mrs.  Lamb  pushed  past  her  as  she  entered.  They 
were  flying  home  to  matfe  amends  to  Mehitable, 
with  kind  words  and  kisses,  and  to  take  away  the 
taste  of  the  thoronghwort  tea  with  sponge-cake 
and  some  of  the  best  strawberry  jam. 

Later  in  the  forenoon  Mehitable,  with  the  row 
of  smooth  water-curls  round  her  head,  dressed  in 
her  clean  pink  calico,  sat  on  the  door-step  with 
her  doll.  Her  face  was  as  smiling  as  the  china 
one.  Hannah  Maria  came  slowly  into  the  yard. 
She  carried  a  basket  of  early  apples.  Her  eyes 
were  red.  "  Here  are  some  apples  for  you,"  she 


268  MEHITABLE   LAMB 

said.  "And  I'm  sorry  I  made  you  so  much 
trouble.  I'm  not  going  to  eat  any." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mehitable.  "Did  your 
mother  scold  ?"  she  inquired,  timidly. 

"  She  did  first.  I'm  dreadful  sorry.  I  won't 
ever  do  so  again.  I — kind  of  thought  you'd  tell." 

"  I'm  not  a  telltale,"  said  Mehitable. 

"  No,  you're  not,"  said  Hannah  Maria. 


THE  "END. 


392460 


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